Truth and Justice
by JC Roberts
Summary: Series featured in Penthouse Magazine! A Batman-heavy future AU sees an interesting dynamic develop between two generations of the JLA. Batman, Superman, his daughter, Roy & Lian Harper, Alfred, Flash, many others. This ain't your father's Justice League.
1. Chapter 1

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Hey now, all you killers.  
Leave your lights on.  
You'd better leave your lights on._**  
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_**"Put Your Lights On,"Carlos Santana**_

**_The First Year_**

* * *

He didn't belong here, in the light, and he would have been uncomfortable without having to fight the natural urge to protect his eyes from the brightness by squinting. The forbidding glower fixed upon his face was as much a part of his costume as the Kevlar-laced midnight blue spandex. A squint would have marred the effect, though in his own mind, it was compromised already. His outfit was tailored for the night and he always felt slightly foolish appearing in it during the daytime. The light revealed too much: the ultimate silliness of a grown man wearing a stylized bat costume and the lines in what showed of his face under the mask. The dark cloaked those things, the foolishness and the imminent sense of approaching age and weakness. Unfortunately, Harvey had no awareness of his discomfort and in all probability would have been childishly pleased to have evoked even the most subtle version of these thoughts. This was why they were all here now, after all: because Harvey Dent wanted attention.

Batman was here more out of a sense of obligation than need; Harvey's psychosis had been under medically-induced control over the past decade enough that he hadn't actually caused harm to anyone. However, he was still classified by the Arkham docs as a "maximum risk" (and by the newspapers as a "supervillain"), which meant not to take him seriously was, at best, bad PR, and, at worst, an insult to Harvey that might lead to an escalation of his disruptive behavior.

Extracting Harvey from the campus clock tower where he was currently holed up would not be particularly difficult, but it would be depressing, as contact with Harvey was bound to be. Delaying the process served to extend Batman's sense of discomfort, but Harvey was no longer a young man and it seemed prudent, at this point, to wait for the ambulance that had been summoned moments earlier at his request.

"Batman."

A uniformed cop with black shaggy hair moved cautiously toward him. The cop looked about 30. His name tag read "Ieiri." He sported a faux casual expression that failed to mask his excitement at having the chance to talk to a man he clearly considered Gotham's greatest legend. Many cops looked at Batman like that; those who didn't tended to wear a less guarded visage, one expressing various degrees of contempt that a "fuckin' vigilante" should get so much respect after decades of desecrating the law. Batman was used to both looks; the former was considerably more common, but neither moved him.

"Arkham's got a shrink comin'. Told us to wait."

Great. "How long?"

"Don't know. Should be here. He's late."

He had very little use for Arkham Asylum's psychiatric staff. Clearly, none of them had done Harvey much good. Twenty years of institutionalization had done nothing to put a stop to these escapes. That this doctor couldn't muster the professionalism to show up in good time did nothing to motivate Batman to cooperate.

He said, "The ambulance gets here and I go." Officer Ieiri nodded solemnly and went to inform his supervisor. Batman was not alone in his contempt for Arkham's criminal psychiatrists and no one was going to side with one against the Dark Knight.

Batman's annoyance intensified as a red dented VW Beetle – the older version – peeled into the parking lot. Probably the shrink, which would delay and doubtlessly complicate what would have been a simple snatch-and-catch. The car had Metropolis plates. He frowned.

The driver's door flung open with an ugly squeak and a pair of blue-jeaned legs stretched out, extending, giving the driver balance while she reached into the passenger seat to pick something up that was too big to be a clipboard or a file folder. As she pulled herself out of the car, she was met by Officer Ieiri, whose expression was now one of alarm and a little anger.

"No one's ordered a pizza here; this is a crime scene."

The driver was a small, striking young woman with shoulder-length dark brown hair, which she now pushed out of her eyes. "Oh. Hang on." She reached into the car and pulled out a lab coat. Without bothering to put it on, she indicated the name embroidered in green cursive over the left breast pocket. "Dr. Martha Kent. New guy at Arkham, so of course, they send me here to look like a fool. Sorry I'm late."

Clearly, the "new guy" was nothing like the officer expected. He took a step back and asked, "You stopped to get a pizza?"

She shrugged. "Everyone's gotta eat. Got a phone line established? Or at least megaphone?

The cop hesitated, then nodded toward Batman. "I dunno. Crusader said he'd grab the guy as soon as the ambulance shows."

Dr. Kent's eyes wandered towards Batman's as if she'd just noticed his presence, which he knew damn well she had not. He could feel his molars grind together as discomfort at the scene in general became profound annoyance at her in particular. Her jaw was clenched, too, in a not-completely successful attempt to conceal an amused smile.

"Well, grabbing him doesn't seem very respectful," she said. "How about giving me a chance to talk to him? It's better if he decides to come down on his own."

Ieiri looked at Batman, who nodded darkly. He didn't like being taken by surprise, but this was his own fault. He'd blown off two phone messages from Clark Kent; they had clearly involved the presence of his daughter in Gotham City. He remembered vaguely Clark's mentioning, months before, that Martha had hoped for a fellowship at Arkham, but he hadn't really been paying attention; there was a point early on in Bruce Wayne's reluctant conversations with Clark that he just tuned the farm boy out.

She practically sauntered over to the megaphone – which sat on the hood of one of the police cars – pizza box under arm. Harvey was paranoid about electronic objects and was certainly not in possession of a cell phone. Martha Kent's exuberance, Batman thought, was inappropriate under these circumstances; it was irritating, but not out of character. It was just how you were when you were raised in a poster family for terminal wholesomeness.

"Mr. Dent," she shouted into the megaphone. "I'm Martha Kent from Arkham. I've got a pizza. You hungry?"

There was a moment of dead silence. There was some eye-rolling among the cops, a few of whom jumped a moment later when a gravelly voice shouted back, "Open the box!"

She set down the megaphone, opened the white pizza box and held it over her head. A moment later, Dent shouted again, "Put down the box and spin around."

Still smiling, she turned in a slow circle, then pushed one of the spaghetti straps from her thin black blouse a little farther up her shoulder and retrieved the pizza and the megaphone. Before she could speak into it, however, Dent shouted, "I'd rather have a blow-job."

Batman, who had observed Harvey's interactions with female staff over the years, was not surprised by the comment. Harvey liked to shock. Martha Kent's response, however, did surprise him.

She examined a piece of paper on the top of the pizza box and spoke into the megaphone. "Nope, sorry, this coupon's for a free pizza. Nothing here about a blow job. Pretty good pizza, though. Sartelli's. How about it?"

There was more silence, but now several of the cops were grinning at her in reluctant admiration. Finally, Harvey spoke, and it was another surprise: "Come up alone."

During the hour Martha Kent was up alone in the Gotham University clock tower with Harvey Dent, the sun started to fade. Several times, Ieiri, and, finally, his sergeant, asked Batman whether he might want to at least check on her safety, but he refused. Safety wasn't an issue here – not that he could tell them that – and now he just wanted to see the look on her face when she returned to the ground empty-handed. Except that she didn't. She and Harvey came down together, the empty pizza box between them, and Harvey climbed docilely into the ambulance that finally arrived. Martha Kent slid into the vehicle next to him; her attention focused solely on her patient. The cluster of cops and Batman himself had seemingly disappeared from her world, and when the ambulance took off and the squad cars peeled away, he actually wondered for a few moments how she'd get back to her car before deciding it wasn't his problem and that it would serve her right if she returned to find it stripped.

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**Next Chapter: **_Gidget Goes to Gotham._

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	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Harvey Dent's re-appearance at Arkham Asylum half an hour later under the supervision of the institution's newest fellow was a happy surprise for Devon Persky, whose two-year directorship had been a succession of disasters. He had hired Martha Kent against the advice of most of the board of governors, three-quarters of whom thought her secondary occupation was a gigantic red flag. Persky was a decent administrator plagued with a high-turnover staff, several of whom had made bad decisions triggered by nerves or even pure panic. Arkham was a scary place to work and the mortality rate for shrinks was significantly higher than… well, than anywhere else. It was hard to do good things under those conditions and the PR opportunity attached to hiring a reputedly brilliant young woman who had just been recruited as the Justice League's reserve physician seemed too promising an opportunity to pass up.

In fact, Martha Kent's CV had seemed almost suspiciously impressive. Persky had taken extra care in confirming the claims within it: Graduation from the Central City University's six-year pre-med/med program at 24, a master's degree in sociopathology from Metropolis U, and, most recently, a PhD from the Sorbonne specializing in the neuro-physiological aspects of criminal behavior. It had all checked out. How the girl had accomplished all of this by the age of 27, Persky wasn't sure, but she had done it, and everyone connected with her praised her work ethic along with the quality of her work. Maybe she didn't sleep. Persky truly didn't care if she wired herself up on coke and No-Doze as long as she stuck around, stayed alive and managed to push the boulder a millimeter or two uphill.

From Persky's perspective, Kent's success in coaxing Dent back to Arkham – something none of her predecessors have been able to do – was as much a coup for him as it was for the new fellow. It was something he could use to justify his hiring of her at next board meeting. Whether the Justice League gig would become problematic in its potential for consuming her time was hard to say, but she had wanted the position at Arkham enough to agree to some pretty harsh terms: She was expected to work the same hours as every other fellow. Her salary would be docked for any time she missed. The state offered decent wages for an Arkham residency, but not enough for someone to think they could do without a portion of it. Persky hoped financial need would be enough to incentive her to keep Arkham her priority. As she tapped diffidently at the frame of his open office door, he thought that pure passion for the work was probably her greatest motivation. She knew she'd done well and she was grinning unashamedly.

"Hey, Dr. Persky."

"Dr. Kent. Interesting second day, I see." Persky nodded toward the chair in front of his desk.

She sank into it. "Yeah, that was cool." She laughed. "Sorry. It was a 'unique opportunity to study the criminal mind in crisis.' At least that's what they told me when they sent me over there."

He smiled. "No one expected you to actually bring Harvey back."

"Uh, yeah, I got that. Newbie initiation, right? But I like that stuff – hands on, with the patients."

Persky recalled a pertinent paragraph in the cover letter that accompanied her CV and said, "I thought your ultimate goal was research?"

"Research with the aim of actually changing things," said Martha. "Theory into practice, not the usual masturba – well, you know, the academic stuff that never gets anyone anywhere."

She _was_ idealistic. "I understand. So how did you get Harvey to agree to return with you?"

Martha shook her head. "Nothing special. I listened to him. He considers himself the wise elder of this institution and he's really treated like crap. He doesn't want to get out anymore, not really. He knows he couldn't function outside, but he would like to be treated with more dignity and I don't blame him. I promised him we'd try to fix that."

_He considered himself a wise elder_? "Dr. Kent, you do realize that this man is a psychopath who has murdered – I'm not sure they were even able to count how many people? And he wants to be treated with dignity?"

"Yeah, but you know who he was before, right?" she asked.

"Before…."

"Before he became Two Face. He was the best District Attorney ever in this city. He put a lot of bad guys in jail. That was the guy I tried to talk to in the tower. Look, it doesn't matter whether you or I think Mr. Dent deserves to be treated respectfully," said Martha. "_He_ thinks he does, and if his cooperation is what we get in exchange for giving him something that easy, we should do it."

Only idealists could work at Arkham, mused Persky. Unfortunately, the asylum beat every ounce of optimism out of every single person who worked there, at which point it became almost unbearable to walk through the door each morning. And, honestly, he found such idealism almost offensive in the face of the ugliness that swallowed up every second he spent at this wretched place. He wondered how long it would take for exhaustion and resentment to replace the enthused gleam in young Dr. Kent's eyes. "Go write up your report."

* * *

The dinner Alfred had prepared for him was cold, but it was still good. Alfred generally cooked meals that were edible at any temperature as he could never be sure when Batman would pull into the cave and Bruce Wayne would wander into the kitchen.

"This is good," Bruce said, fixing the frail butler with a frown. In past years, it had not occurred to him to compliment Alfred's cooking. It was unnecessary; Alfred knew how he felt and was not in the game for compliments. Lately, though, Bruce had felt the desire to say something, occasionally, to let the old man know he was appreciated.

"As it was said with your usual boundless exuberance, I will wallow in the glow of your praise," said the butler. Bruce allowed himself what would probably be his single smile of the week.

"Interesting news broadcast," Alfred said. "Mr. Dent returned to the asylum of his own accord? Oh," he added as his employer's face darkened. "And this was not a good thing?"

Bruce blew out air. "I don't know. Looks like my life might become more annoying. Although maybe I can avoid it. You remember Clark Kent, the reporter from Metropolis?"

"I don't know how I could, sir, as you've only known him for 30 years"

"Yeah, OK. He has a daughter. She's a doctor, a psychiatrist, and now she's working at Arkham. That's what those messages he left me were probably about, to let me know she's in town."

His butler said, "I thought everybody in that family was a journalist."

Bruce snorted. "Everybody else. Clark and his wife –"

"Lois Lane. Beautiful woman."

"– and their son. Martha's the black sheep, getting the medical degree."

Alfred's eyes misted. "Lovely name, Martha." It had been Bruce's mother's name.

"Clark's mother's name was Martha, too," Bruce said quietly. "This girl is named after her. She was on call this afternoon and she managed to get Harvey back to Arkham by bribing him with a pizza."

"I sense, somehow, that you don't like her?"

Bruce blew out another irritated puff of air. "She's just like her father. Everything's wonderful and happy and exciting and deep down inside, people are truly good. She's like "Gidget Goes to Gotham."

Alfred frowned. "Maybe I'm thinking of thinking of someone else?"

"Hmm?"

"Isn't she the young lady whose fiancé was murdered?"

He had forgotten about that. Martha Kent had been very young when she'd become engaged to a Metropolis cop. Dave something. He'd been gunned down during a routine traffic stop a few months before the wedding. Bruce recalled his encounter in Metropolis with a numb and probably tranquilized Martha when he'd come to pay his respects. He pushed his dinner plate away. He did not like that memory; it was disturbing, and he forced it out of his mind.

* * *

"I've seen your daughter."

Even when you're indestructible, being forced out of a deep sleep can be painful. Clark Kent grimaced, squinted at the glaring red numbers on his bedside clock radio and rolled away from his wife's side of the bed.

"Yeah," he rasped wearily. "She told me. Six hours ago." Clark heard his wife mutter, "Son of a bitch." Apparently, she'd read the caller ID over his shoulder.

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Clark hated these passive-aggressive little power plays and he had no patience for them at three in the morning on the only day this week he'd actually had the chance to get some sleep. He decided the quickest way to end the phone call was to relay the information as he'd originally intended when he had called Wayne Manor days ago. "She got the Arkham fellowship. Three years. She's really excited."

No response.

"Anyway, thought you should know she was there. You might see her sometimes. I don't know, I thought, maybe if she ran into any trouble, you wouldn't mind…." His voice trailed off, wondering what had made him think Bruce wouldn't mind an intrusion into his obsessively regimented life.

"You want me to look out for an invulnerable girl."

He'd hit a sore spot. Probably unintentionally. Or maybe not.

"She's not invulnerable," Clark said quietly.

"She have my phone number?"

"Yeah," said Clark.

"OK." Click.

Clark glared at the dead receiver. Lois took it from his hand and returned it to the cradle. She wrapped her arms around him.

"Why would you want that man to have anything to do with our daughter?"

"Gotham's a dangerous place," said Clark.

His wife replied, "Martha's a dangerous woman."

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**Next Chapter:** _A League of Their Own_

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	3. Chapter 3

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Grendel Gardner crossed his black boots over the face of the gleaming conference table and silently reviewed the argument he planned to offer at the meeting slated to start in half an hour. Although he was one of the younger members of the Justice League at 27, he was currently one of the senior members as well, having served on the team since he was 16. He'd worked under the big boys and girls, including most of the founders, and as the first second-generation Green Lantern in recent history, he had a legacy on his side as well. Well, maybe he wouldn't use that. Everyone had hated his father, Guy – no one more so than Gren himself.

He'd taken leadership courses at college and was the only member of the current League to have served in the military. And he'd been Arsenal's number one hand when he'd started to re-organize the group after last year's shake-up. He deserved a chance to lead the team. Harper had had it for years, mainly because no one else had wanted the job. He'd done OK, but now it was time for fresh….

"Get your feet off the table."

Gren's boots whipped through the air as he spun in his chair. Arsenal stood leaning against the door frame. Like most of the older heroes, Roy Harper's age could be read only on his face… on the weathered lines around his eyes and mouth, and in his fading, slightly thinning auburn hair. From the neck down, he was still a young man, hard muscled and solid. Gardner, who was taller and skinnier, resented the older man's bulk and his inconsistent sense of authority. If you were his daughter or a pretty woman or one of his old friends, you got the softer side of Roy, he thought. Gren mostly got his attitude.

"Yo, Arse," he said, pleased with himself for what he considered an extremely subtle insult. "Anyone here yet?"

"Do you _see_ anyone else?" Roy dropped into a chair across from him. "Should be a good meeting today. Martha's back. Supes has agreed to come back part-time and Batman said he "might" return, which is what he always says. And we've got some new talent. We've got to get ourselves back in fighting form. So try and behave yourself, OK?"

Gren thought that if he had been in charge, there'd have been no need to "get back" in fighting form. They'd have never left it. It seemed like every few years, the Justice League took a massive hit and that after three decades of that sort of experience, the team should be able to bounce back from it better. And some of the deaths this time – they hadn't even been combat fatalities. J'onzz had died of _old age_, for God's sake, and his death was the one everyone had taken the hardest.

"Yeah, I'll behave myself," Gren said. "Try not to put the moves on the new girls. It's pathetic."

* * *

"Uncle Roy!"

Martha Kent threw herself into his arms and Arsenal felt grateful for the seconds he'd had to brace himself. She was usually pretty careful, but today her excitement made her almost forget herself. Getting Martha back was a coup. Roy had been cajoling her to rejoin the League for years – both personally and through his daughter, Lian, who was Martha's best friend and sometime roommate.

"Drop the "uncle," please?" he asked, hugging her back. "You make me feel old. As in 'dirty old.' " He kissed her cheek. "Welcome home, honey."

Martha leaned back and examined his face, smiling. "God, it's going to be the most incestuous Justice Leagues ever. But….I'm so glad I'm here. It's the right time." A boot squeaked against the tile floor, shifting her attention a few feet to her right. Gren readied himself for his hug, but she just tugged playfully at his shoulder-length ponytail.

"Hey, Gren. Nice hair."

"Wanna run your fingers through it?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you've changed."

Before Gren could retort, Martha turned back to Roy. "Lian here, yet?"

He shook his head. "You know she'll be late. She's gotta make an entrance. But the others should get here shortly. You might want to, you know, cover up."

* * *

There was only one genuinely new "girl," and she was 35. When Roy introduced her, he couldn't pronounce her name. She was from Colu, and had the super-sized brains most natives of her planet considered standard, along with the green skin and blonde hair. She didn't appear to share the cold nature that was characteristic of the Coluans most of them had met. She shyly offered to adopt a more easily spoken human name and Superwoman predictably pointed out that the team should have enough respect for its members to learn pronounce the names they were born with.

"Except," said Lian Harper. "You can't pronounce it, either." She tossed her glossy mane of red hair and grinned. "Politically correct isn't practical here."

Lian – Quiver as she was called in costume – was, like Gren and Martha, a second generation member of the League. Roy had not particularly wanted her to follow in his footsteps, but then, all of the superhero "brats" had been urged to explore other paths in life and none of them had listened.

It did make it easier that the Harpers had formed a close relationship with the Kents. Clark had suggested it not long after Martha was born. Roy was the only other member of the League at the time that had a child. Clark figured there might be a point where either of the girls might need someone to talk to who really understood what it was like to "have a dad in tights."

He'd been right, though it took several years for the friendship to gel. Lian was four years older than Martha and was completely uninterested in socializing with someone she considered a baby. But by the time Martha was in her mid-teens, she and Lian were inseparable. When Martha's fiancé was killed, Clark credited Lian with saving his daughter from the depths of what seemed bottomless despair. For Roy's part, he'd always felt grateful that Superman – who stood alone in his stature in the superhero community – had trusted the Harpers with his secrets and his friendship.

He looked around the conference table, hopeful, if not completely satisfied. Lian slouched next to Superwoman, a blonde Amazonian who, under close scrutiny, looked a little unreal, like one of those hot virtual reality chicks in the newest video games. Next to her sat Superman. Meera Buhpathi, who was something more than a telepath – and who couldn't take superhero monikers seriously enough to adopt one – sat placidly across from the Flash, Roy's old friend, Wally West. As usual, the Batman had no patience for sitting. He was leaning against a wall in the corner of the room, his arms folded across his chest. He hadn't said a word since he'd walked through the door.

Roy asked the Coluan woman to wait in the lounge while they discussed her impending membership. As soon as the door shut behind her, Superwoman dissolved into Martha Kent.

Roy nodded toward her. "As I mentioned to most of you, in addition to welcoming back Superwoman, who is going to split duty with her father, we're going to have our first team doctor."

Flash looked amused. "We all need psychiatric care?"

"Well, of course you do," said Martha. "But I've also got a cert in emergency medicine."

"Turn the hologram back on," Gren told her. "Green girl could walk through the door any moment with a real cool human name to suggest for herself."

She regarded him coolly. "You're just more comfortable around artificial women."

Lian laughed and leaned affectionately against Martha's shoulder. Gren glared at both of them. Superman murmured something to his daughter, who rolled her eyes and touched the button on a small device on her belt that activated the hot blonde illusion.

The secret identity issue was going to be a problem every time they brought in someone new, thought Roy. Only Batman and the Kents still kept their private lives private, at least when it came to the general public. Within the League itself, these secrets had gone out the window 14 years ago, during the final showdown with Eclipso. Fortunately, nothing disastrous had come out of the breech. The participants of that particular battle were either trustworthy or dead.

"Let's talk about the candidate." Batman's impatient voice shot out from the back of the room, causing the Flash and Gren to startle. "What can she do?"

Arsenal reached for a DVD-ROM that included a summary of the Coluan's talents, but before he could slide it into his SmartBoard-linked laptop, an alarm, reminiscent of the ugly blare of a diving submarine, rattled the building. Roy called up the alert and projected it onto the wall-sized white board.

"San Juan… new outlet mall… ah, here they are. Damn, I thought the Demolition Team was worm food." Quiver moved next to her father and touched the keyboard, zooming in on a beefy middle-aged man held aloft by a jet pack. He was flying low, careening wildly amidst a screaming crowd of mall patrons, many of whom were running headfirst into his oversized workman's boots. The SmartBoard offered no sound, but the bad guy was obviously struggling to control the jetpack as he cursed at the frantic crowed below.

"That's Hardhat," she said. "None of the other guys look familiar. He must've put together a new team."

One of the new gang members, a statuesque, well-tanned woman with a large, obscene belly-button ring, hurled a sledgehammer into the window of a Charlotte Russe store.

Quiver's eyes narrowed behind her green mask. "Oh, no you didn't," she hissed.

"Hey," said Superwoman. "I _like_ that store." A violet blur shot past Roy, and suddenly there was an empty spot where Lian had been standing.

"OK then," he said, agreeably. "Superwoman and Quiver, you're on point. The rest of you….

Batman, already at the door, said. "You'd better get control of your team, Harper." Then he, too, was gone.

Arsenal lost the smile. "You go, too, Gren." The Lantern, wrapped in a light-green glow, shot from the room.

"Don't feel bad," said Superman. "God knows I can't control her."

Arsenal said grimly, "Let's see what our wannabe makes of this."

* * *

It would have taken Superman three minutes to reach San Juan from the League's Headquarters in upstate New York. It took Superwoman seven. She was glad a conflict in several members' schedules prevented a meeting at their main HQ – the Watchtower Space Station. Flying in from orbit would have cost them a lot of time. Besides, breathing was somewhat more critical to Superwoman than it was to her father.

Martha and parents had decided long ago that the less people knew about Superwoman – she was still Supergirl back then – the better. Clark's rationale was that it was safer for their enemies not to know that a half-Kryptonian girl only had about half the powers. Although she'd have denied it, his daughter's reasoning was less logical: She did not want to disappoint hundreds of thousands of people who thought she was a full-fledged female version of the world's greatest hero.

She could fly as well as her father, but not as fast. She had a little less than half his strength – though that was plenty strong, Lian often reminded her. She was not, as her mother incessantly nagged, invulnerable, though she was hard to hurt and healed tremendously fast. And she'd inherited none of her father's super-senses – a serious handicap when flying long distances. She'd memorized maps in order to compensate, but her navigation skilled were far from perfect. As she and Lian, who currently had a death grip on her shoulders, broke away from the Florida coastline, she hoped fiercely that they would make it to San Juan without any unintended detours.

She was spared the stress of this unknown when a black-and-green suited figure pulled up next to her and shouted, "Out of shape, Supes? What's taking you so long?" Gren shot ahead, but not so quickly that Superwoman would lose sight of him before they landed in the mall parking lot.

The death of his cronies a few decades back in a battle with the OMACs had not rendered Hardhat introspective enough to reconsider his criminal past, nor even inspire him to select more intelligent partners. Besides the fashion-challenged woman who'd attacked the Charlotte Russe, he'd recruited two others that Superwoman could see – two nasty-looking men who were dressed similarly to their leader in work shirts, heavy boots and hard plastic helmets. They seemed to be smashing through store windows for the sheer fun of it – as all of the shops had doors – in order to sledgehammer open the cash registers and grab as much money as they could stuff into their waist packs.

Superwoman shook her head in disbelief. "Stupid, stupid people," she said.

* * *

What Arsenal had suspected – and the rest of the team was learning – was that the Coluan woman was exactly the opposite of a "stupid, stupid" person. She'd soaked in the situation with a glance at the SmartBoard and asked Roy to switch the view over to an interior camera.

He couldn't do that, Roy explained. The League's satellite could only pick up exterior shots.

She blinked at him innocently. "But you can commandeer the store security cameras and use them to monitor the situation." Everyone in the room stared at her. "Can't you?"

The Flash leaned forward. "Can you?"

Years later, Roy Harper would remember the moment the strange green woman began taking apart his astronomically expensive, state-of-the-art computer and recall how close he'd come to vomiting. He was a technophile and it was his great pleasure to be the guardian every few months of Wayne Industries' latest personal computer. Scratch marks on the black plastic made him cringe. Beyond this personal fetish, he knew that had their new recruit turned out to be a fraud or a lunatic, his credibility as leader, already strained, would be gone forever. Arsenal had been a member – and sometimes a leader – of several groups before the Justice League, but no gig had ever meant as much to him.

Flash, too, was staring at her, open-mouthed, clearly regretting he'd ever asked the question.

After five or six tense minutes, she looked up, round yellow eyes sorrowful, and said, "I'm sorry."

I'm going to kill myself, thought Roy.

"I can only call up about 17 of the security cameras inside the mall. Lots of the store cameras are dummies and those smashing people – burglars? They've interfered with a lot of the electrical wiring."

She pushed a few keys, causing the monitor screen to split into nine sections, each revealing a different perspective of the mall corridor. In one of them, Superwoman was hanging the female offender from a food court chandelier. She appeared to be bound by several pairs of colorful knee socks.

Through dry lips, Arsenal said, "You're hired."

"Welcome," said Meera. She smiled. "I think it's safe to say that we're officially no longer an old boy's club."

* * *

It took Superwoman and the Green Lantern less than five minutes to corral Hardhat and his three accomplices. Quiver had immediately started to evacuate civilians; Batman, once he'd landed his plane in the parking lot, joined her, concentrating on getting the wounded to waiting ambulances.

"Damn," said Gren. He flicked at a loose piece of glass dangling from the facade of an Old Navy store and the entire front window tumbled inward, smashing over a bevy of haughty-looking mannequins. "Took longer to get here than to take care of business."

Superwoman surveyed the considerable rubble that had just an hour earlier been a gleaming mall concourse. "We'd better make sure the beams are stable before we let the cops in, though. Don't want….

_Superwoman. _Martha jumped. It had been a while since she'd heard Meera's voice in her head. It was gentle, but sudden and it left her brain feeling a bit stuffy. _Green Lantern._ Gren, more used the telepathy, merely lifted his chin.

_There's a fifth perpetrator – a small female hiding in the Cold Stone Creamery about six stores away. She's got an automatic rifle of some sort."_

"How do you _know_ that?" asked Gren aloud.

_Later_.

Superwoman was already inside the ice cream parlor. Gren heard a burst of rifle fire, but he wasn't concerned. He'd known Martha since they were teen-agers. She scarcely needed his help for something like this. By the time he'd ambled over, the gun was on the floor, its barrel now resembling a steel-gray Twizzler. Hardhat's fifth partner was staring up at him from the inside of the glass-covered freezer unit.

The blond hologram encasing Martha Kent shook its head. "I should think before I act. She's lying on my favorite flavor."

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _Well-adjusted_

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

"What did you think of Gren trying to edge out your dad?" Martha asked, hours later, as she and Lian began unpacking boxes in the small two-bedroom apartment they'd rented in Northeast Gotham.

Her roommate grimaced. "What a joke. Who'd follow him?"

"I don't think I could," said Martha. "He's got some real power issues."

"He's an obnoxious jerk," said Lian. "He acts like having been in the army makes him a leader. And he's such a fool with women. You haven't seen him in action lately, but he actually thinks all the bimbo worship means something."

She pulled a skimpy gauze blouse from the brown cardboard box and held it up against her ample chest. "Hey, I forgot about this one! Does it still look hot on me?"

"The _box _would hot on you." Martha reminded herself that friends don't psychoanalyze friends and ripped the packing tape off of a Seagram's crate. "Jeez, Lian, you have an entire box full of underwear?"

"Well, you know, you need different ones for different occasions."

Martha snorted softly and reached for a slice of Sartelli's veggie works pizza. Lian had built her entire identity around her sexuality. Even her crime-fighting name – Quiver – evoked a provocativeness she couldn't seem to turn off. She was naturally gorgeous – Roy's red hair and green eyes had mixed lusciously with her mother's striking Vietnamese features. She'd also inherited Roy's sexual attitudes – at least those of his younger days – and had taken them what Martha considered an alarming a step further. Being Lian's roommate, Martha knew, would mean spending a lot of nights alone. That was OK. She expected this year to be one of the busiest of her life. She hoped to spend every spare moment at Arkham, either working with patients or doing research. And then there was the Justice League and her solo patrolling. She needed a night's sleep every few days, but otherwise didn't expect to be home much herself.

Lian bit into a slice. "This is good pizza."

"Harvey Dent thought so."

She laughed. "Maybe that's why Bats looked so mad. You didn't offer him a slice."

Martha leaned back against the tower of liquor store boxes that contained the rest of Lian's clothes. "Li, I think he always looks mad."

Lian's eyes glinted mischievously. "Remember when you were 14?"

"Shut up."

Martha had badgered her father into letting her fight with the Justice League in what became an experimental – and ultimately discarded – trainee program. Lian, at 18, was already a full member, battling alongside Superman, Batman, her father, the Martian Manhunter and Wonder Woman.

"My God, you had a crush on him." Lian took a sip of Dr. Pepper and laughed again. "Oh, your poor father. He was so embarrassed watching you mooning all over the Big Bad Bat. Bats was embarrassed. Hell, _I_ was embarrassed. It was painful to watch."

Martha sucked down half the contents of a 20-ounce soda bottle and sighed. "Yes, Lian, and for the next 14 years, _I've_ been embarrassed, as you've never let me live it down."

Learning that Batman was also Bruce Wayne had put an immediate and unequivocal end to her infatuation. She could thank Eclipso for that. She was horrified to learn that her great, noble hero was the sleazy playboy she often saw splashed across the front page of supermarket tabloids, always with a different woman. He was, Martha believed at the time, as skanky as that lecherous geezer, Donald Trump. Her mother did her best to reinforce this impression.

"My mom said he once had sex with Selena Kyle in our bathroom," Martha said, covering the last slice of pizza with a layer of hot peppers.

"Really?" Lian leaned forward. She found this sort of dirt irresistible.

"Yeah. At a party Dad threw to celebrate the publication of one of Mom's books. Mom said he did it out of contempt for my dad," Martha ran her finger around the rim of her bottle.

Lian frowned. "She sure? He doesn't even bother with that act anymore. I mean, you almost never see him with a woman. Kinda thought he might be gay."

_Probably because somewhere along the line, he said "No" to you,_ Martha thought. "Think he'd hide it? No one cares anymore."

"Old people do," said Lian sagely.

"He's not old."

Her roommate raised an eyebrow

"My mom's the same age. She's not old," said Martha.

So many sore subjects, thought Lian. Lois Lane, at 55, was one of the most brilliant and beautiful women Lian had ever met. Her husband worshiped her, despite the fact that he hadn't visibly aged a day since he'd reached manhood and Lois was, it could not be denied, a human woman past middle age. Martha was close to her mother. Her mortality was a scary subject, one her daughter rarely discussed. Lian had lost her own mother before she was three, and hadn't really known her much before then. She could only imagine Martha's anxiety. What Lian didn't have to imagine was her friend's crippling grief, eight years ago, when her fiance was shot to death. She had been there when Martha dropped the telephone and crumpled onto the floor. She never wanted to see her friend that broken again.

"So," she said lightly, returning to a safer topic. "You don't think he's hot at all?"

"Huh?" Martha was ripping the tape off of another box and had lost track of the subject. "Oh, no. I like them well-adjusted these days."

Her roommate regarded her carefully. "Now that you're back, I want to put you on a training regime. We can't have Gren calling you out of shape again. And maybe Friday we can scout this city for a couple 'well-adjusted' guys"

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _A hostage crisis, some tersely drawn boundries and the beginnings of a friendship forged over strawberry pancakes._

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

The better the weather, the more time for crime, thought Batman idly, as he smashed his fist into the face of a gang banger who had picked the wrong mugging victims. The punk careened into an alley wall and slid to the ground, unconscious. Batman bound him to a light pole and escorted two trembling teen-aged girls onto a well-lit street. He asked them to call 911 and report the location of the mugger – then lectured them sternly about taking shortcuts until a cab pulled up a few moments later. By the time they drove off, it was unclear who the girls considered more frightening – the gangster or the man who'd rescued them from him.

It was an unseasonably warm September. The summer crime wave had not abated at the technical arrival of fall. As soon as he'd opened the door to the Batmobile, his scanner reported another disturbance – this one at the city's new billion dollar performing arts center.

Orest Lyakhovolska was one of the few astronomically wealthy entrepreneurs who actually believed in the possibility of a Gotham renaissance. Lyakhovolska, a Ukrainian immigrant, had arrived here as an eight-year-old and eventually become wealthy through the acquisition of several popular foreign-language cable companies. Not only had he been extravagantly generous in his drive to build the Gotham Center for the Performing Arts, he had been considerate enough not to call it the Lyakhovolska Center. "Even I couldn't pronounce it," he joked, probably a few times too many.

Bruce Wayne had attended the grand opening of the center days earlier. He'd been moved by the tasteful grandeur of the center, and impressed by the work that had gone into the sound design and the architecture. The main auditorium had been built so there literally wasn't a bad seat in the house, and the cello shape of the room allowed for extraordinary acoustics.

Someone less impressed by Lyakhovolska's labor of love was trying to launch a performance of his own, Batman thought grimly.

The center was ringed with police when Batman arrived. He approached Lakeeta Reardon, the city's third police commissioner since the retirement of Jim Gordon, and asked what was going on.

She swore. An unknown number of persons had sealed off the main auditorium and were holding the theater-goers hostage, Reardon said. All of them were supremely wealthy society types, bedecked with enough jewelry and cash to rival the contents of any bank in Gotham.

"They went in black tie," she said tonelessly. "Blended in with the crowd, then locked the doors. We've heard some shots. Ambulances are on the way."

"Good." Reardon was the first commissioner he'd halfway respected since Gordon retired. She was analytical, calm and didn't give a rat's ass about public relations. Unlike her immediate predecessors, she was glad there was still a Batman roaming her streets. Batman could sense this and he appreciated it.

He returned to the Batmobile long enough to study a blueprint of the center he'd uploaded to his on-board computer just a few days before. He shuttered the car with a push of a button and hurtled a batarang at the ornate upper façade of the theater.

A few minutes later, he was crawling through the rafters just over the main auditorium. He tuned out the whimpers and sobs of petrified patrons, intent on locating the source of their terror. He counted nine men, their potato-sack masks contrasting eerily with their formal wear. Six of them brandished machine guns. They appeared to ring the hall while their collaborators divested audience members of heirloom jewelry, obscenely priced watches and cash.

Two members of the orchestra lay prone on the stage, their white shirts drenched in growing pools of blood. Batman wondered momentarily if there was any chance the robbers could be drawn out of the auditorium. The gunmen were too spread out for him to be able to nail them all before someone started shooting.

He'd have to knock everyone out. He reached into a compartment in his belt and unfolded a compact gas mask. After he'd secured it around his face, he started loading a multi-directional launcher with knock-out capsules. He only had four. Six would have been better. He wasn't prepared for this sort of crowd.

An abrupt streak of indigo distracted him from his preparations. Batman saw with a start that the gunmen, all six of them, were staring down at empty hands. A few of them started cursing. They all began to run.

Most of the hostages couldn't see what had happened, but many of them sensed a change in the dynamics of the situation. Screams replaced whimpers as thousands of people began flailing about the hall in a blind panic. Batman saw several parents push small children to the ground and use own bodies to shield them. He kicked out the vent and dropped from the 100-foot ceiling into the middle of the chaos.

One of the robbers was clawing at a door he'd probably sealed himself; he was nearly crushed by a surge of theatergoers desperate to escape the auditorium.

Batman had no time to worry that the perpetrators would get away. His immediate concern was to prevent a mass trampling. He shouldered an overweight man with a goatee out of the way moments before he would have slammed into a frail old woman. Then the caped crusader moved quickly to assist a couple who, along with their young son, had the misfortune to stand between a mob of panicked socialites and an emergency exit.

"Everybody freeze!" Batman was startled by the sound of Reardon's authoritative voice, enhanced electronically by the state of the art sound system. "Now! Freeze!"

Enough people obeyed for Batman to glance, for a second, at the stage, where Reardon stood, her usual stern features alternating with surprise at her own appearance in the hall. "The crisis is over; everyone is safe. You are to stop running and _Sit. Down. Now"_

Gotham's finest were flooding into the vast room through every theater entrance now. One of them hauled up a robber, who, Batman noticed, was definitely unconscious and possibly flatter. Before he could continue his efforts to calm the crowd, he found himself lifted off of his feet, out of the auditorium and into the street.

"They split up," said Superwoman as eased him to the sidewalk. "At least four of them are loose."

"Where?" He realized, dispassionately, that he was going to be furious at her later; right now he had more pressing concerns.

"Don't know. I was kind of busy dragging the commissioner onstage. Let's split up." Batman started to open his mouth to respond, but realized he was standing alone.

The streets of Gotham were ingrained in his head, an internal map created through 30 years of defending every alley, every dead end, every corner of his city. He knew immediately that the best escape route lay just east of the performing arts center, through a series of small alleys that eventually led to the river.

It took him two minutes to corner three of them; less than 60 seconds relieve them of consciousness. He examined the overturned trash cans and strewn pieces of glass that coated the alley floor, looking for some sign that would lead him to the fourth thief.

Before he continued his pursuit, however, Superwoman alighted next to him, holding the final fugitive by the back of his tuxedo. He was dazed, but still conscious. Batman punched him hard in the jaw and he flopped like an untethered marionette. Superwoman's eyes flicked from Batman's grim face to her prisoner's prone form. The hologram couldn't fully reflect her true expression, but he could tell she was once more failing to suppress an amused smile. She released the robber's jacket. He fell face first into the dirt and broken glass.

"You want to get something to eat?" Superwoman asked. "I was hoping to talk to you."

* * *

The casualty count for the debacle at the Gotham Center was miraculously low. The only deaths, Reardon informed them, were those of the orchestra members who had been executed in what had been an attempt by the gunmen to send a message to their captive audience. Both had died instantly, long before any manner of law enforcement had arrived on scene.

Of the injuries, the most serious were sustained by the robbers themselves; three of those who had not escaped had been crushed against the walls and doors of the auditorium; the other two had been stomped into unconsciousness by livid arts patrons. Among the audience, there were three fractures and scores of cuts and bruises, but nothing life-threatening. Compared to the hellish outcomes of similar hostage situations around the world, Reardon said, she found tonight's resolution "satisfactory."

She seemed taken with Superwoman, whom she'd never met before. "Thanks for the ride," she said. "I've never made that kind of entrance before."

Superwoman smiled. "I'm like a human hang-glider," she said modestly. "It was really nice meeting you. Batman's going to take me out to an early breakfast now."

_Oh no, he's fucking not,_ he thought. He turned and strode furiously toward the Batmobile.

* * *

She let him go for the moment, but when he pulled into the Batcave at 4 AM, Alfred silently handed him Bruce Wayne's cell phone.

"Oh, come on, Bruce. You can tell me all the ways you want me to stay out of your life," she said. "Just meet me at the IHOP for 45 minutes. My treat."

He realized that he was talking to Lois Lane's daughter and that she would badger him until she got her way. Better to get it over with and set down some ground rules – but on his terms – and his territory.

"You can come here," he said. He snapped closed the phone, handed it back to Alfred and headed for the shower.

* * *

She arrived just after 5 AM, as Martha Kent, wearing jeans, a pink spaghetti-strap blouse and tie-dyed Croc knock-offs. When he opened the door, Alfred was puzzled to see no car in the drive.

"Hi, Mr. Pennyworth," she said, extending a hand. "You may not remember me. We met at a charity picnic when I was a little girl? Martha Kent."

She had a bright, open smile and Alfred found himself instantly liking her. "Please come in," he said. "Mr. Wayne is in the kitchen."

He had just finished quarreling with Bruce over the amount of effort he was expected to put into breakfast. Bruce had flatly told him to offer her a box of cereal and some milk, a suggestion Alfred found repugnant.

"I will not have it said that I offered a guest in this house dry cereal," he said indignantly. "However, if that's what you would prefer to eat, please help yourself."

Bruce had been tempted to offer bacon and sausage as second suggestion, as he knew the Kents were vegetarians. Lois and the kids were, anyway. He knew Clark sneaked an occasional hamburger.

At this point, Alfred was unwilling to listen to him. Although Martha immediately asked him not to go to any trouble, he insisted on whipping her up a plate of strawberry pancakes.

He stuck a box of Cheerios in front of Bruce.

Since she'd shown up as a civilian, there wasn't anything of substance Bruce could say to her while Alfred was in the room. Martha asked the elderly butler if she could help him – a gesture that offended Alfred when it came from Bruce, but apparently charmed him when the offer was made by an attractive young woman.

They discussed England – Martha had visited there several times when she was at the Sorbonne and shared Alfred's passion for the gardens in Devon and Kent.

"Does your family come from Kent?"

Martha sipped her glass of water and flicked mischievous eyes at Bruce. "Some of them, maybe. We're sorta … from all over."

Alfred placed cups of Darjeeling before them and informed her that Mr. Wayne preferred his without the civilizing addition of milk. Would she like some in hers?

She smiled again. Other facial expressions were seemingly unknown to her. "I'm afraid I'm just as barbaric. I like to taste the tea."

As soon as the elderly man placed the steaming stack of pancakes on the table, Bruce said, "Thank you, Alfred." It was an obvious dismissal.

"It was so nice meeting you again, Dr. Kent. You have grown up beautifully. I hope you will grace this manor with your presence again," he said, daring Bruce, with his tone, to veto this invitation. Bruce made a mental note to never again to suggest compromising Alfred's professional skills when attempting rid himself of an unwanted guest.

"Please, Mr. Pennyworth. Call me Martha. Only my patients call me Dr. Kent." She reconsidered. "Oh, wait, they don't. I can't actually repeat the things most of them call me."

They agreed that she would call him Alfred and he would try to call her Martha (Bruce knew the butler would not keep his part of the deal). Finally, he left the room.

"These are the best pancakes I've ever had," she said passionately, adding "Sorry I took so long to get here. That's what happens when the person who invites you over doesn't actually give you his address. You have to fly all over the city looking for a mansion."

He leaned across the table and whispered fiercely, "People could have been killed last night."

"Well, _yeah_," she said, as if this was obvious. "But they weren't, because I took away all the guns."

"And started a riot."

A shadow of annoyance crossed her features. "And how were you going to handle it? Swing around on your rope and kick the machine guns out of their hands?"

He described his plan to render the occupants of the room – criminal and civilian – unconscious. She looked skeptical.

"That was a great idea when they tried it in Moscow. How many people died?" She was too young to remember that nightmare. Apparently, she'd taken a rudimentary class on the history of terrorism.

He blew out a lungful of breath he didn't know he was holding and said, "That was 25 years ago. And orchestrated by amateurs. What I have is state-of-the-art and _safe_."

Martha frowned at the kitchen table for a few moments. "Maybe this was a little larger a crowd then I'm used to, but I did the only thing I could think to do. I didn't even know you were there." She brushed a careless hand at her eyes. "No x-ray vision, remember?"

He didn't see the point in prolonging the argument, other than to extend the mild satisfaction he was getting in putting her on the defensive. "Next time, assume I am."

She nodded. "Look, I just wanted to tell you that I know this is your town and I have no intention of getting in your way. I mean, I hope it'll be my town – I've always loved this city. But in a crime fighter sort of way, I know it belongs to you.

_Yeah, _thought Bruce_. I've peed on all of the boundries_. She would have laughed if he'd said it aloud, but he didn't think it was funny. He wasn't some sort of territorial old animal. He just wanted what was best for Gotham.

"Fine," he said.

"I mean, I could help, sometimes, if you…." He stared at a wall beyond her head and said nothing.

"…. My resources at Arkham..."

He'd hacked into the Arkham server years ago and would have access to her records the moment she'd entered them, but he had no intention of telling her that.

Martha gave up. "OK, so then there's just the doctor thing." He frowned at her. "I'm the Justice League doctor, remember? So I'll have to give you a physical, or, at least, get a copy of your latest medical records."

"No, thank you." Bruce stood. "You can finish the pancakes," he said, and walked out of the kitchen.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _Popcorn, comradery and picking pronouncable name._

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

"Buffy."

"Are you nuts?" Lian threw a piece of popcorn at her roommate from across the round white table in the farthest corner of the Watchtowner's observation room. They had been lounging there for more than an hour with Meera and their new teammate with the unpronounceable name. Martha had appeared sans hologram, having recently been introduced to the recruit as the team physician.

Life on Colu had did not appear to have been fun for their brainy colleague; she was enamored of all things human and eager to assume an earthly name. Roy had asked the other women to befriend her.

Martha said solemnly, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer was the most kick-ass superhero who never lived."

"But we live," said Meera Buhpath. "And we want our new friend to be taken seriously."

She cocked her head at the newbie and offered, "Parvati was the Hindu god of love and devotion. And she saved the world."

The Coluan's face brightened hopefully.

"A little egotistical, though, to name yourself after a God," Martha mused. The new girl's smile tumbled.

Lian rolled her eyes. "Thank you so very much. Maybe we should tell that to _Superman_ and _Superwoman_."

Martha said defensively, "They didn't name themselves."

"My green skin is unique here," the recruit suggested. "How about Greenie?"

"Yeah," said Lian. "And we can name our next black recruit "Blackie," and the next Latino or Asian one "Brownie."

"Lian," said Martha. Meera shook her head.

"Sorry," Lian said to the newcomer, who was totally oblivious to her sarcasm.

Meera leaned forward again. "How about Midori? It's Japanese for green, but it's also a relatively common name."

"And a tasty liquor," Lian added brightly.

"I think it's cute," said Martha, ignoring her roommate. "But what do you think?"

The recruit repeated the name several times, as though engaged in an experiment involving sound energy. "It's good. I can be Midori."

Martha added, "And your middle name can be Buffy."

"Shut up," Lian and Meera chorused. Martha who never had problem laughing at herself, grinned and reached into the container of popcorn.

This bonding session offered Midori her first chance to question her new teammates about their tenure with the Justice League. She learned that Lian, whose expertise with archery and weapons had been passed down from her father, had been a member of the group for half of her life. Meera, who'd moved to Canada from Southern India in her early teens, had been with the League for five years.

"I'm a telepath," she explained, in response to Midori's question. "And an empath. If you hear my voice in your head, it's not your imagination. I do most of the communication." She had other powers, but they were hard to explain and most people found them a little scary. There were things she could do to a person's mind that would have made her a formidable supervillain had she not possessed such an honest and peaceful nature. Although Meera was among the most emotionally balanced members of the team, she took nothing for granted. She spent daily hours in meditation and mindfulness practice in order to fortify her mental health. No one could afford for her to "lose it."

"And I'm, y'know, the doctor," said Martha offhandedly.

"And Superwoman," said Midori. "I've meant to tell you – I can improve your hologram."

Not for the first time since she'd arrived on Earth, Midori found that everyone in the room was staring at her.

"How do you know this?" asked Martha.

Midori looked surprised. "It's not a very good hologram. And you don't change your voice."

Martha tried not to talk too much as Superwoman, at least to civilians. She considered the hologram a necessary evil and made no effort to imbue her alter ego with a personality. Her father had developed the device years ago, in collaboration with some scientists from the Cadmus Project, after his 14-year-old daughter jubilantly modeled for her parents the skin-tight, flesh-baring costume she'd unveiled as her "crime-fighting uniform." It had not helped that Lian had designed the outfit.

A ferocious argument had followed. No daughter of hers, announced Lois Lane, was going out in public looking like a pubescent spokesperson for the Skank of the Month Club. Clark silently agreed, explaining to his indignant daughter that her proposed costume didn't disguise her face at all; they need more of a full-body cover, something that would present a Supergirl who looked completely different from Martha Kent. Although Lois objected to the depiction of Superman's daughter as a "vapid blonde bimbo," Martha initially enjoyed the irony of the contrast between herself and her alter ego.

As she grew older, Martha came around to her mother's way of thinking, both on the topic of spandex costumes and on the Barbie-doll image of Supergirl, now Superwoman. She would have preferred to be herself, fighting crime in a pair of jeans and a tank shirt – her usual attire when not at work – however she had never thought seriously of doing so. She held her secret identity to be as sacred as her father did his own. The safety of their family depended upon these facades; it always would.

She was not sorry Midori was in on the secret. It would make working with her easier. And the newcomer was certainly intelligent enough to understand the importance of keeping such dangerous information quiet.

"I always thought it was pretty good, but if you can make it better, cool," she said. "Right now I've gotta run. Got some laundry to do before work tomorrow."

Lian rose. "Then I've got to go, too. If I don't stand over her, Martha won't separate the whites from the colors.

"We're not finished with you, though," she promised Midori, examining the latter's plain white coveralls and unstyled hair. "We've got some major clothes shopping to do. And a make-over."

Meera laughed. "And my wife is waiting for me, so I'll say goodbye."

Midori looked puzzled. "I thought men have wives?"

"Here on Earth," said Meera, "Some women do, too."

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _Another day, another evil flying robot army._

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

Another day, another evil flying robot army, thought Superman distractedly as he punched one of the mechanized marauders into scrapyard fare. Random bolts, screws and what looked like a processor chip rained into Metropolis Bay.

"That isn't very green," quipped Superwoman, attempting to drop-kick one the gleaming white seven-foot invaders into a junkyard sitting just south of the bay. Unfortunately, the robot appeared to be equipped with stabilizers that allowed for a good degree of inertia. Superwoman's foot plunged into its mechanical midsection; she was literally knee-deep in robot innards.

"Kick with your heel, not your toe," advised her father as she struggled to withdraw her leg from what had become, in essence, a raging mechanical bull. Superwoman used her free leg to push against the robot's barrel chest, then, finished it off with a left cross that set its head careening into the Bay.

"Can we debrief a little later?" she snapped. The 'bots weren't much of a challenge, but there were still three of them left and too many civilians on the ground to get sloppy.

Two of the remaining automatons had the misfortune to hover too close to Superman. Without actually looking at them, he grabbed one cylinder-shaped head in each hand and smashed them together. He blew the falling body parts into the junkyard, then politely waited for his daughter to finish off the final fighter.

She did so in style, taking off his head with a spinning hook kick that sent it flying past the bay itself and into the Atlantic Ocean. She grabbed the tumbling mechanical torso to stop it from falling onto a convergence of longshoremen who hadn't had the sense to run when the battle started.

"Any ships out there?" Superwoman called to her father. He shook his head.

"No," he said. And he smiled. "Nice kick. Ready for Sunday dinner?"

* * *

"You have robot guts on your Reeboks." It was true; a small coil and some stay wires were caught in a shoelace just over the tongue of Martha's running shoes. She tugged them out and flicked them across the table at her brother Clay. They bounced off the front of his plaid cotton shirt and into his plate of tofu curry.

He was about to toss the now pungent clump of hardware back at her when their mother intervened.

"My God, you'd think we still had two teen-agers," Lois Lane said. There was no real irritation in her voice. A series of nominations for journalism awards had been announced earlier in the day and Clayton Kent's series on a recycling scandal had been nominated. Very little could have ruined his mother's evening.

"Very cool," said Martha, upon hearing the news. She tried to sound excited. She was, of course, pleased for her brother, but it was hard to work up a lot of enthusiasm about the acquisition in the Kent home of yet another news industry accolade. Her parents' den was plastered with them; they obscured every inch of wallpaper, and Clay was already accumulating his own collection of plaques and statuettes. Martha's tone betrayed her "what else is new" attitude. Her brother went in for the kill.

"How sad," he said evilly, "That they don't give out awards for curing psycho-criminals. Oh, wait – they can't be cured."

Martha laughed. "That's not true. Lobotomy. Just because it's illegal, doesn't mean it's ineffective."

"Sounds like a slogan," said Clark mildly. He was glad to have the family together, if only for a few hours. When he was a boy, Sunday dinners were inviolate: Everyone would be there to wade through an avalanche of food: turkey, ham, homemade mashed potatoes, vegetables they'd picked earlier in the day…. Now it seemed like even when two of them could fly home, there was never enough time to set aside a day of the week to share a meal together.

Clay, who was six years younger than Martha, still lived at home. He was a rangy young African-American man with a halo of dreadlocks that surrounded a baby face. He'd worn the 'locks since the first grade and Lois became agitated every time he threatened to cut them. As it was, she was having trouble with the small amount of stubble he'd recently decided to leave on his jaw every other morning.

Clark – Superman, actually – had delivered Clay himself in an East Metropolis alleyway. His birth mother, just seven months pregnant, had been beaten senseless by a pair of gang members, who stole her purse and left her for dead. Superman had not arrived in time to prevent the mugging; he was on his way back home after rescuing 20 people from a tenement fire on the other side of the city. He had found her, hemorrhaging, unconscious and pummeled beyond recognition. She was in the middle of the final stages of labor. It had been too late to fly the woman to Metropolis Medical Center, although Superman had rushed mother and baby there immediately after the premature infant's birth. Despite Herculean efforts on the part of the trauma team, Clay's birth mother died half an hour after she arrived in the Emergency Room. A months-long extensive nationwide search did not turn up a single person who knew her.

Clark visited the neo-natal care unit the next day to report on the search for the boy's family, which the Daily Planet had helped sponsor. He found himself making excuses for "follow-up" visits until a nurse finally asked him if he wanted to hold the boy. He needed to bond to someone, she explained.

That evening, Clark approached his wife about adopting the child. Martha's birth had almost killed Lois; having additional children naturally was out of the question. Raising a half-Kryptonian toddler had been an overwhelming task. Unlike Clark, whose powers developed gradually, Martha was flying before she could walk. It had taken some long-neglected Kryptonian technology and a few good minds from Cadmus to help Lois keep her under control when Clark couldn't be around - which was, inevitably, often. Lois often joked that all of her gray hair came in between Martha's first and third birthdays. This wasn't entirely untrue. But by the time her daughter had started first grade, she was open to Clark's suggestion that they expand their family. By then she was well aware that her husband had fallen love with the little boy he'd helped bring into the world and was expecting his request.

Unlike most adoptions, this one went through easily, as both would-be parents shamelessly pulled every string they could. When Clay was released from the preemie unit two months after his precarious birth, he was ushered into the Kent townhouse, where Martha danced happily around her new brother.

Clay had worshipped Clark – not as Superman, but as himself – since he was a toddler. While most little boys soared around in Superman capes and Batman cowls, little Clay donned an oversized pair of glasses and one of his father's suit jackets and waddled through the room clutching a pen and a reporter's notebook. Neither Clark nor Lois had minded Martha's preference for medicine over journalism, but they were truly thrilled when their son chose to follow in their footsteps.

By halfway through dinner, talk, as usual, had turned towards the news business. Martha had long since learned to tune out such conversations, taking the mental alone-time to consider the effectiveness of various treatment plans she'd been working on – Harvey was doing exceedingly well since she'd overhauled his medical regime and insisted he be treated with more respect. She wondered about the new patient she'd been told to expect a new patient tomorrow – some nutcase who'd been attempting to transform himself into a snake. Martha had been so lost in thought that was startled when her brother removed her empty plate from the table and asked, "How's Lian?"

Lian and Clay were better friends than his parents would have wanted. Lian had played sexual mentor to many young men and Clayton was among those who had benefited from her abundant generosity. He was wise enough to not to have developed romantic feelings for Lian, but he did admire her. She had been there for his sister when she needed her – and, besides, she was a laugh.

"She's fine. Says hello," Martha said. In order to divert her mother's suspicious glare at Clay, she added, "And, Dad, I had that talk you suggested with, you know, that person."

"Good," said Clark. "Does he feel a little more comfortable with you being in Gotham?"

"No," said Martha, with a laugh that sounded equal parts amused and resentful. "He hates me."

"Don't take it personally," said her father.

* * *

Lian was gone when Martha arrived home from dinner a little after 9 PM. She felt restless and there was nothing on TV, so she three an armful of clothes into the washing machine and headed toward the little gym Lian had set up in a corner of their living room. The spaghetti-strap shirt and jeans she was wearing didn't qualify as work-out clothes, but Martha suspected if she stopped to change, she might not return to the bench press. She reached up onto a shelf that contained a sweatband, a weight belt and several other training accessories and found a slim silver bracelet, which she snapped around her right wrist.

She considered a variety of factors, and then loaded 130 pounds onto the weight bar. That was nothing, of course, for Superwoman, but when the bracelet was secure around her wrist, it was Martha Kent lifting the weights. The bracelet was more than just an attractive trinket: it was a clever fusion of Kryptonian technology and Cadmus genius-scientist innovation that allowed two frazzled parents of a half-Kryptonian child to experience some relief. The metals and circuitry in the bracelet acted upon its wearer much like a red sun. While wearing the band, Martha was no stronger or otherwise "super" than the average human woman of her age and fitness level. This enabled her to train with weights that were actually available for sale in the average sporting good store. There were other reasons to don the bracelet, including the need to occasionally take a pre-employment physical. And, if she was ever to want to become pregnant by a human man, the bracelet was currently her only hope – if such a thing was possible at all. Martha was not sorry her ova were generally impenetrable, nor that she was immune to all known sexually transmitted diseases, but family meant too much to her to rule out the possibility of a baby someday.

This was the last thing on her mind right now; her biggest concern at the moment was defending to Lian her decision to lift without a spotter. Martha knew her roommate would scold her for doing so; she also knew Lian would give her hell for _not_ training. She'd slacked off big-time in Paris. Her most frequently used form of exercise equipment at the Sorbonne was a Frenchman named Philippe, who happened to be her "Trends in Therapeutic Neurosurgery" professor. None of their encounters involved strength training.

The first lift was fairly easy. Martha was young enough for her muscles to have retained sufficient memory to make 130 pounds seem almost effortless. Throwing on an extra 20 pounds substantially increased the challenge, but it was those last 10 she'd attempted during her final rep that really had her straining to lock out her elbows. She took a final breath, squeezed her eyes tight and pushed out with all of her might. Just as her arms straightened, she was jolted by a sudden absence of weight. Her eyes flew open. There were two black-gloved hands gripping the barbell, holding it steady.

Martha closed her eyes in relief and exasperation as she released the barbell and dropped her head back onto the bench.

"Jesus. Do you_ like_ to scare people?" Without waiting for a response, she sat up and rested her forehead on her knees.

"You should be able to lift more than that." Batman said. It was no surprise that he was able to set the weights down one-handed, but it annoyed her.

"I know. I will." She would. She built muscle fast. She examined him. As usual, Batman's countenance made the grim reaper seem like a really fun guy. Martha was a little surprised to see him in her apartment at all. She wondered what he wanted, but his reaction to her openness during their last encounter made her unwilling to initiate the conversation. She slipped her hands into her pocket and looked at him expectantly.

After a moment, he said, "Salvatore Slipp. You're admitting him tomorrow."

The snake man. Martha hadn't heard anything about Batman bagging him. She wondered what his interest was. "That's right. You have a special interest in him?"

His interest was in her neglect, yesterday, to process the records they'd sent ahead of Slipp, but he saw no advantage in letting her know that Arkham's files were, essentially, his files. A cop he'd spoken to suggested Slipp had done some hideous things to a woman before a posse of zealous police officers transformed him into the human equivalent of a bloody rag doll. It was likely Slipp would join the majority of Arkham's less outstanding population, rendered impotent by a combination of strong drugs, restraints and solitary confinement, but, still, Batman liked to know. You never knew who was going to move right to the top of the class in what Jim Gordon used to call "The Academy of the Insane."

Martha smiled, tilted her head at him and then plunked down onto her living room couch. She crossed her legs and waved a file at him.

"Got his CV right here. Interesting guy. All buttoned-down and GQ on the outside, kind of nerdy, even…." her eyes glittered impishly.

"And?" She could see a muscle work in his jaw. Martha knew he thought she was playing games, but he wasn't the only one who could use silence as leverage.

"He wants to be a serpent."

This was new information. "A serpent."

"Yeah, he pretty much wants to be a snake. The arms and legs are setting him back a bit," she added cheerfully.

He mulled this new bit of information over, before asking, "What makes the intake officer at Gotham prison think Slipp wants to be a snake."

"Do you know that when you ask questions, there's like, never a question mark in your tone?" asked Martha. "Your questions sound like statements."

His eyes darkened. "Last time we spoke, you offered to help me."

Still smiling, Martha waved the folder at him again, this time gesturing him to take it. He stepped toward the couch until he was towering over her, his shins were about two inches from her knees. He opened the manila folder. "You allowed to take patient files home?"

"Not really, but I needed to read it," Martha said. "Got it just before an army of robots decided to knock over an armory in Metropolis. Of course, I'm not allowed to show it to anyone, either. You should probably give it back to me right now."

He nodded without actually hearing her. His focus was on the file. The written report was rather spare, containing just the initial crime report and some comments recorded by the arresting officer and the intake guard at the jail. Shipp apparently got off on strangling women while sexually assaulting them in a variety of degrading combinations. He'd seemed to have made a science out of just how close to unconsciousness he could bring a woman so as to maximize her terror without making her lose consciousness. The specific details were brutally perverse; Batman had no intention of discussing them with Clark Kent's daughter.

It was the photographs, however, that gave him pause. The first depicted a man who, as Martha had noted, seemed fairly conservative in his appearance and not at all extraordinary. A shirtless photo revealed nothing more remarkable than a curious shadowy ring around his waist that seemed to peek just a millimeter or two above the top of his Dockers. The next photo, which showed Shipp stripped from the waist down, was another story. He'd had his entire lower body tattooed; from the tops of his feet to just above his hipbones were inky dark green and black scales reminiscent of a dragon or serpent. His white hands where placed to protect his modesty; this contrast only made the effect of the tattoos more disturbing.

Very little could move the stone face Batman had adopted decades ago as his permanent expression, but Martha, who had been studying him as he examined the folder, noticed the barest flicker of an eyelid as his eyes fell on the fourth photo.

"That one's my favorite," she told him.

Shipp's hands, it seemed, had been covering himself not out of modesty, but in preparation for the big reveal: His penis was completely tattooed so it resembled a snake, complete with beady black eyes and a tiny forked tongue.

"That one's the 'Yes, I'm crazy' money shot," Martha said. "Can you imagine _wanting_ to go through something so painful and something so potentially damaging to such an important body part? He's lucky it still works."

"Does it?" Batman asked quietly.

Martha shrugged. "According to what he did to that woman, it does. But if I were a guy, I wouldn't be taking that chance."

He closed the folder and handed it back to her.

"You know, if you'd waited a day, you could have hacked into our system and gotten all of this," said Martha, folding her hands behind her head and leaning back against the couch to look up at him. He did not react, but she could tell he wasn't happy that she'd figured him out. It hadn't been a big reach – Superman had mentioned long ago that Batman wasn't particularly protective of the civil rights of criminals. After he refused her offer of inside information from Arkham, she assumed he had his own way of obtaining the data. It didn't bother Martha. Her own attitudes were much closer to Batman's than to her father's, at least where violent criminals were concerned. "I don't scan in patient records until my own intake report is complete."

He nodded. Before either one of them could speak, her phone rang. Martha reached across the arm of the coach to retrieve the receiver from an end table.

"Hello?" She listened for a moment, her natural smile broadening. Her voice, when she spoke, was surprisingly husky. _"Ah, hallo, Philippe! Quelle surprise agréable! Comment sont vous, Bébé?"_

Philippe's response was characteristically erotic and his voice over the receiver seemed unusually loud. Martha looked up quickly, hoping that Batman did not speak French, or at least had not picked up Philippe's part of the conversation. She needn't have worried. He was gone.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _A session with Harvey_

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

_

* * *

_

Don't bring a bag lunch – either leave the grounds for a quick bite or eat a big breakfast and try to get through the day without eating. Don't hang around after dark unless you're forced to take call – and then perch next to the biggest, nastiest guard you can find for the duration. Never spend time with a patient near the beginning or end of a med cycle unless there is a shatterproof window between you. And never let an inmate lull you into believing he's harmless. "Harmless" is an antonym for "Arkham inmate."

- An unofficial survivor's guide for Arkham Asylum Staff

* * *

"Want an apple?" Martha Kent indicated the shiny piece of fruit on her desk without raising her eyes from her computer screen.

"Thanks." Harvey Dent chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "Gala?"

"Pink Lady." Martha leaned back in her chair and pushed back her bangs. "What time is it?"

Harvey looked through the small window at the darkening sky. "Time for all good doctors to run screaming from the madhouse."

Martha laughed and reached for a second apple. "Doctors with a social life, you mean." Her eyes found the clock on her computer monitor. "Hey, it's time for your meds, Harv."

He withdrew a few capsules from his front coverall pocket and downed them with a half-opened bottle of spring water. "Why do you do this?"

"Do what?" said Martha, though she knew what he meant.

"You know what I mean. Do you have a death wish? You wouldn't be the first. Or do you think your affiliation with the Justice League protects you?" Harvey asked.

Martha shook her head. "If anything, I think that makes me a bigger target. Look, I assess people pretty well. That's one of my strengths. Between adjusting your meds and getting some other stuff straightened out, I think we've made a lot of progress. And, honestly, you help me. Your insights on some of the other inmates are useful. You helped me a lot with Slipp."

Harvey gave a short laugh. "That wasn't insight, it was a joke. I can't believe you tossed a live rat at him and dared him to swallow it whole."

"It got his attention," said Martha. "He stopped hissing at me."

After a moment of silence, Harvey said, "It doesn't mean a thing to me that the guards are treating me better. I know they're only doing it because you ordered them to." Martha looked at him and nodded.

"I know you mean it, though," continued Harvey quietly. "The respect. When you talk to me."

"I do," said Martha, softly.

Harvey looked at his lap for a moment. "You should go home, Dr. Martha." He looked tired; the burned half of his face was drooping a bit more than usual. Martha walked him back to his cell. They had an unspoken agreement that Harvey's free time in her office would be limited to when most of the staff had left for the day; Persky would probably be outraged if he knew she'd been removing him from his guarded, ultra-secure cell without authorization, but she also believed Harvey needed this. Real respect was the key to his compliance. Without it, he would not take his pills or adhere to Arkham's multitude of regulations.

"Harvey," said Martha, just before she locked him in. "I kinda have two sides to me myself." Their eyes met for a moment, then Martha closed the door.

She had hours of work ahead of her. Her last jaunt with the Justice League had set her back days and she couldn't afford not to make up the time. She didn't know how the rest of the staff did it; even with her ability to stay awake for days, it seemed like the work just never kept coming.

Lian, who knew her better than anyone, claimed this was because Martha was a perfectionist who enjoyed making more work for herself. This wasn't altogether wrong. But the fact was that there was just a lot to be done at Arkham, she thought. The chaos and fear that was infused into the culture of the asylum interfered with most doctors' ability to produce the detailed and painstaking work most psychiatric institutions required. Martha didn't blame her colleagues – she knew she had considerably less to fear than any of them – but she did wish things could be different.

She dropped into her desk chair and pulled up another patient file. Lian had wanted to go out tonight. Martha called the house to let her roommate know she wouldn't be able to make it. She was relieved to find that Lian had already gone on without her.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _An attack on the earth, an argument and an enlightening conversation at Wayne Manor._

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

Batman had missed the sunrise; he'd pulled into the cave moments earlier, after a hard night. The Indian summer had long since faded, but the crime wave it had inspired had not. It seemed like the bad guys were getting bigger and more numerous – or maybe he was just getting old.

He'd just pulled off his headgear, ready for a hot shower and bed, when Meera's voice penetrated his mind: _Batman. We need you. Superwoman is coming to pick you up._

"I can fly myself," he said, pulling the mask back over his head. Most League members spoke aloud to Meera out of reflex; Batman did it on purpose. He did not want stray thoughts slipping into his otherwise terse replies. He strode towards the underground hangar.

_No time. Stand by for Superwoman._

She was already there, touching down on the floor of his cave, Quiver riding her back like a human cape. Neither woman took the time to glance around, as the rare visitor tended to do.

"C'mon," said Martha, holding out an arm. "We're already late."

* * *

Arsenal, Midori and Flash were already at the Upstate New York headquarters when they arrived.

"Good," said Arsenal, glancing at his watch. He motioned toward the wall-sized monitor that had recently been vastly improved by Midori. Hundreds of figures were dropping out of the sky into what appeared to be a patch of the American northwest.

Quiver's eyes widened. "That looks bad," she said.

"Yeah," said Roy. He pressed a button on his keyboard and the screen split. The second image showed four spacecraft in close formation in low orbit around the Earth.

"They're right on top of NORAD."

"There's no base at NORAD anymore," said Quiver. There had been endless fanfare when the government closed down the base fifteen years ago, not long after it announced that the war on terror had been won.

"Yes there is," Batman and Arsenal said simultaneously.

"So what are we doing?" asked Superwoman.

"We fight them. Gren went to get Meera. Don't know what's keeping them." said Arsenal. "I've called for back-up – Superman's out of town; Animal Man's hurt again. Thunder, Fantasia and Molten are all unreachable. We've left messages for members of the Green Lantern Corps – Gren's going to try again when he gets here."

He turned from the screen to the small group he had summoned. "We can't wait. Batman, Midori's cooked up a few neat new toys for us – he nodded at a pile of gleaming weapons strewn across the conference table. Batman picked up what looked like a laser rifle on steroids.

"Do they kill?" asked Superwoman.

"Of course not," said Arsenal, irritated. "But they hurt – a lot."

Midori stepped toward Batman. Shyly, she held out a small, boxlike device. "It's a force field," she whispered, blushing olive. She had become comfortable with most of her teammates over the past months, but Batman still intimidated her.

"Thanks," he said, clipping the gadget onto his belt. Arsenal tossed a second force field generator to Quiver. He was already wearing one.

"They won't make us invulnerable," he said "But we'll definitely be tougher to kill. OK, let's go," he added. "The others are going to have to meet us there."

A flash of green contradicted him. "No way, Harper," said Gren, who was suddenly standing next to Arsenal. "You don't get to leave without us."

* * *

Most of the group rode with Gren in a green bubble-like force-field. Quiver, as usual, rode with Superwoman. The Flash, on foot, was the first one there. He was punching through his dozenth invader by the time the others arrived.

"Are they robot or human?" Roy shouted the question.

"Armored humanoid," Wally yelled back, still swinging.

"There's a whole bunch of soldiers out here," Superwoman reported through Meera.

_Great_, thought Roy. He ordered Meera to tell the military commanders to hold back for now. He did not like the idea of dead soldiers.

There were probably three or four hundred of the invaders. They had apparently counted on battling human military personnel, not superheroes. They were putting up a good fight, but not an impossible one. The key was going to be stamina, Arsenal thought. _Can we keep going when they keep coming?_ He fired a "joy buzzer," one of his newest arrows, at an alien fighter. Upon penetration, it emitted the force of a high-grade stun gun. The invader shook spasmodically and crumpled to the ground. Roy smiled grimly and reloaded.

Superwoman was working on pure momentum, flying low and banging into a succession of invaders as though they were dominoes. As they toppled, Quiver shot binder arrows around the piled-up bodies, effectively taking them out of the fight.

The aliens' psyches were difficult to penetrate at a cognitive level, but Meera was able to induce in the attackers closest to her a wave of irrational fear that made it more difficult for them to fight. The effect was particularly effective on those battling Batman; his mere existence seemed to daunt people regardless of their planet of origin. He was using Midori's weapon as a quarterstaff, smashing barrel and rifle butt into whatever face happened to approach him. The force field was probably working, but it was hard to tell. His opponents weren't getting the chance to hit him, either with fists or firepower.

Grendel decided right away that he wasn't cherry-picking today. He hit about fifty of them with a solid light construct resembling a huge green tidal wave. He could have expanded the field of the wave, but Meera and Flash were fighting nearby and he didn't want them caught up in his emerald tsunami. The blast of energy felled most of his targets. Gren, feeling more confident, sent a big green bowling ball after the rest of them.

They had probably been fighting for half an hour, when Meera's voice ordered the Green Lantern and Superwoman after the orbiting ships. There were only a few dozen able fighters left on the ground by now. It was time to make sure reinforcements never arrived.

* * *

The two flyers shot into space together, quickly scouting the area where the ships had first appeared. Superwoman, who was working on a quickly-drawn lungful of air, looked at her partner. Where were they?

Gren's puzzled eyes met hers and he shrugged. Then he gestured a suggestion that they expand the search in case the small fleet was still in orbit. She nodded nervously and broke away, raking the exosphere for the alien ships.

It wasn't Grendel's fault, Superwoman told herself as she scanned the juncture of space and sky. He didn't know how short a time she could last without air; Superwoman was not big on sharing her limitations. It sounded too much like making excuses.

Ten minutes into the search, she felt her consciousness slipping. She let herself drop back into the atmosphere for a moments, sucked in a fresh lungful of air, then flew back to resume her search. Nothing. This wasn't the best way to tell if the ships were gone, she thought. She concentrated hard on contacting Meera.

_I hear you._

She felt dizzy again, fading.

_Superwoman. Report._

Martha thought she'd managed to tell her that the ships were no longer at the original docking site and that Midori better check the skies on her remote computer. Then she let herself drop back into the atmosphere, barely replenishing her lungs and brain in time to fend off the impending black-out.

She had just righted herself when Grendel gripped her arm.

"Are you OK?" he shouted. "Meera said you were passing out."

She pulled away from him. "Did she get my message?"

He didn't know. "The ships are gone," he shouted, redirecting the both of them toward the battle site. By the time they arrived, the U.S. Army Corps had taken over the unenviable task of cleaning up mounds of unconscious invaders and their teammates were ready to be taken home.

* * *

The Green Lantern Corps had eventually received Arsenal's message. They had captured the small fleet of spacecraft as it entered the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter. There had not been a second wave of fighters on board; they had not expected significant resistance.

From what Arsenal ascertained after a debriefing with Kurdoon, the Green Lantern Corps local section leader, the invaders were eco-terrorists on their own planet, an abominable sewage dump of a world that was infamous among more urbane space travelers for its blind insistence on consuming itself into extinction. The group that had tried to overrun NORAD considered the Earth a fresh, green place to live and impose its own planet-friendly regime. That they'd have to overthrow or kill the planet's existing leadership had not troubled them.

"And they thought we were clean and green?" asked Lian. "Not too bright, are they?"

"They were activists, not scientists," said Midori primly.

"They were right about the pollution," said Martha. She had turned off her new Midori-modified hologram. "It sucks that they were homicidal nuts."

"They weren't nuts," said Batman. "They were cold-blooded killers."

His tone irritated her. "No, they weren't nuts, Batman, OK? Forgive me for trying to add a bit of lightness to the conversation."

"A bit of light-headedness, you mean," he shot back. "Nice stunt you pulled back there, Kent, nearly knocking yourself out. Great way to help the team."

He'd managed to push two of her buttons at once. Martha smashed her hands on the conference table, rising, "Well – "

"Enough!" Roy waved at Martha to sit down. She did so, glaring mightily at Batman, who pretended not to notice. "Martha. You _do_ have to be more careful. No one expects you to do anything you can't do." Roy thought sadly that this was probably not true. "And Batman, Superwoman was trying to ensure that the rest of us were safe. She was conveying important information at her own expense."

"It didn't _have_ to be at her own expense," said Batman. "She could have spent two seconds dropping into the atmosphere and taking a deep breath."

"I didn't think we had two seconds," snapped Martha.

Lian put her hand over Martha's mouth and said, "We're going to go now, if we're all done debriefing. I need to pour cold water on my roommate."

Everyone except Batman laughed. Martha grinned reluctantly.

"Sorry," she said to the room in general. She stood again. "Want a ride, Bats?"

He didn't. After a round of hugs in which only Batman did not participate, Gotham's female contingent took off through an open window.

* * *

Roy Harper looked around the plush living room and felt, as always, underdressed. His shoes were nearly new, but he still felt uncomfortable stepping on the soft off-white carpet. He stood awkwardly in front of an opulent antique couch, his hands in his pockets. When Bruce Wayne walked into the room, he nearly jumped.

"I feel like I'm in a museum," he said.

"You get used to it," said Bruce, with forced politeness. Most visitors to Wayne Manor – at least the ones he respected – were working people. They all had a similar response to the lavishly furnished mansion – as though they were out of place among these treasures and might somehow break or soil something. This reaction invariably made Bruce feel vaguely like a spoiled brat. He reminded himself that his father had been a working man, a doctor, and there was no reason to be ashamed of his family home.

"You want something to drink?" he asked Roy, as Alfred tottered into the room.

"We have a very fine sherry, sir," the old butler informed him. "And some excellent brandy."

"Just a glass of water, please," said Roy. "I'm not much of a drinker."

Alfred returned momentarily with two glasses of water. Roy fiddled with his messenger bag, eventually pulling out a sheaf of paper.

Early on, members of the Justice League realized they'd need funding to stay operational and that accepting too much support from government entities could lead to conflicts of interest. Eventually, it also became apparent that there wasn't much money in the superhero trade unless you were willing to sell out. Clark, of course, had long had held down a job, but he had participated fulltime in the League for very limited periods of time – besides, he didn't have to sleep much. Bruce had his fortune and Wally's wife was a successful television journalist. Meera was a therapist who specialized in post traumatic stress disorder. They were among the few who rarely had money worries. Most of those who devoted themselves entirely to protecting the world had struggled to survive until the Martian Manhunter, during his stint as leader, suggested the League might seek stipends for some of their members.

By then, Eclipso had done his damage and there were no secret identities to protect among the membership. Batman had immediately offered to fund the stipends, which he claimed would amount to a write-off for Wayne Industries. The stipends – which J'onn himself graciously declined one for himself – would allow for food, shelter and utility payments, along with any sort of training equipment and professional items a League member might need. A generous medical plan was also included. Currently, Roy, Lian and Grendel received the stipend. Roy was there to arrange for Midori to get one as well.

"Although, if I were you, I'd hire her as part of your tech division," Roy said. "She'd make you a freaking fortune – more of one, I mean." He reconsidered, and added, "Forget it. I want her with the League full-time."

Bruce looked up from the paperwork he was signing. "Full-time seems to describe how much time you're spending 'orienting' her.

Roy, whose relationship with Lian's mother – and his two subsequent marriages – had ended in disaster, reached for a pair of reading glasses. "She's from a different world – it's not easy to acclimate. Believe me, she's not my type. Unbelievably innocent."

"That wouldn't be your type," Bruce agreed. "She doesn't seem like the other Coluans we've met – not that we've run into a ton of them."

Roy explained that, Midori had been an outcast on Colu, considered by her peers to be emotionally unstable.

"Why?" That didn't sound too great.

"Because she actually has emotions," said Roy. "Don't worry, she's fine." He fumbled with the glasses. "God, it sucks to be old."

"Get your eyes zapped like I did," Bruce said.

"No thank you. I prefer my eyes laser-free," Roy replied. "And it's not like I read a whole lot of fine print."

Bruce leaned back on the couch and watched Roy return the papers to his briefcase – minus a direct deposit form Bruce would have processed the following day. "Kent doesn't want one?" He'd hacked into her employment records the night she'd coaxed Harvey out of the tower and she knew she was docked whenever League business took her away from work. Even without this handicap, Lian made more money than her multi-degreed roommate.

Roy said carefully, "Kent? No, Clark's pretty set. He'll probably be able to retire in a few years with a nice, fat pension."

"I meant –"

"His daughter," Roy finished. He studied Bruce's face. "Her name is Martha. And no, she probably thinks accepting money for saving people's lives is worse than prostitution."

Bruce clicked the pen he was holding so that the point moved in and out of its plastic sheath. He said nothing.

"You do know you picked that fight with her yesterday?" asked Roy. "The two of you can't get through a meeting without arguing."

Bruce stared at the pen for a long moment. "She compromised the team. She needs to know her limitations."

"She didn't compromise anything," said Roy. "If she'd passed out, the worst that would have happened was that she'd make a big hole in the ground, wake up perfectly OK and pick up wherever she left off. And we were already cleaning up shop by then.

"But you're right," he conceded. "She puts herself unnecessarily at risk. People expect a lot from Martha – too much. She knows that. She doesn't want to let anyone down."

Not a good quality in a crime fighter, Bruce thought. If not herself, she'd get someone else killed.

"They all have their problems, our JL brats," Roy said. "Lian – I know she's got issues. Gren's nowhere near as bad as Guy, but he's still an obnoxious bastard. And Martha's a workaholic who's going to overcompensate herself into an early grave.

"You're wrong about her, though. She's not from Smallville, Bruce. She's no farm girl. And she's far from squeaky-clean," Roy's tone wasn't suggestive, but with his reputation, it didn't have to be. A startling and entirely unwelcome image flickered in Bruce's mind. .

It must have shown on his face. Roy said quickly, "No, I haven't. Lian would kill me."

Bruce said, "_Clark_ would kill you."

"No," said Roy reasonably. "Clark might terminate our friendship, but he wouldn't kill me. He knows his daughter's a grown-up. She was practically living with Dave when she was 20 and Clark _loved_ him.

"And then last year in France," he added. "That whole thing with Philippe. Clark loathed the guy, but he's still alive." Philippe. The man on the telephone, that night in her apartment.

"So she dated a Frenchman. In France." Bruce noticed that Alfred was lounging nearby, apparently having determined that the conversation concerned Martha Kent. The old butler had taken a curious interest in her after their first meeting. He was pretending to dust, but Bruce knew better.

"A Frenchman who happened to be her professor," said Roy. "And I'm not sure I'd call it dating. Philippe was good for her, though," he added quickly, as though he felt she needed defending. "She needed something simple to get her back into the game. It took her years to recover when Dave was killed."

That memory again – his visit to Metropolis eight years ago…. Bruce rose abruptly. "You know a lot about her."

Roy understood the meeting was over. He got to his feet and slung the messenger bag over his shoulder. "Martha tells Lian a lot and Lian tells me everything." As they clasped hands, he added, "Thanks for adding Midori to the payroll, Bruce."

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _Escape of the Serpent_

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Martha was tweaking the treatment plan of a serial murderer who called himself the BoneCruncher when her boss walked into her office and slammed the door. She looked up from the chart she'd been studying.

"He's escaped." Slipp's preliminary hearing had been earlier that afternoon.

"He's _escaped_?" Martha was on her feet, every instinct urging her to fly out of the window and track her murderous patient down. If she was fast enough, she might find him somewhere near the courthouse. _Get out. Get out. Get out_, she thought at Persky. No telepath, he didn't move.

"He must have slipped the straightjacket halfway to Arkham," Persky said. "He started pounding on the back door of the van and those idiots opened it. One of them might survive," he added as an afterthought. "Not sure he's going to walk again though."

Martha readjusted her assessment of Slipp's location and silently willed her boss to leave. Persky clearly expected her to participate in a conversation, so she offered, "Is it on the news? Has someone contacted Batman?"

"The police are after him. Breaking news bulletins are running in red banners across the bottoms of every TV screen in town," he said. "I don't know about Batman. I guess Reardon will contact him. If she knows how." He paused for a moment, brows knitted, then asked, "Do _you_ know how?"

Martha grabbed the opening. She forced a sheepish face. "Well, yeah," she said. "But I've got to use a special phone." This wasn't exactly a lie. She could have called Wayne Manor and asked Alfred to wake Bruce up and tell him to watch the news, but she couldn't say much more on an unsecured line. She'd have to use the Justice League relay to provide better details.

"Go then," said Persky. "Let's get this guy back here. We don't need another public relations disaster."

Or another torture-murder, thought Martha, as she hurried to the parking lot.

* * *

Batman was searching for Slipp before Martha opened the door of her car. Alfred listened to a police radio while he dusted and cooked. The news of Slipp's escape had reached him before Persky's panicked secretary had rushed into his office to give him the news. Batman had scoured the area around the abandoned prison van, but Slipp was long away. Whether it was through smarts or sheer luck, he hadn't left traces of any sort to follow. The gray December afternoon was quickly turning dark. This was unfortunate for the police, whose reliance on visual clues would be hampered. Batman preferred the night.

He heard the soft touch of rubber soles against asphalt and realized Superwoman had landed behind him. He didn't turn around.

"No luck?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Anything you can tell me?"

She sighed. "I don't think so. You know how he escaped." Batman didn't contradict her, so she went on. "He's mean and smart. Also very insane. He's not like a lot of patients, who try to hide it. He revels in it."

Batman remembered the tattoos. "Think he'll try to run around without pants?"

Surprised, she chocked out a laugh. "Good one."

He turned to face her, his features dour. "I wasn't joking."

* * *

Lian had been doing sit-ups and watching "All My Children" when she saw the bulletin crawl across the television. She cursed and suited up. Superwoman eased through a window as Quiver was adjusting her mask. After a brief discussion of tactics, they split up.

The night passed quickly and fruitlessly. Slipp had melted away. When Martha Kent went to work the next morning, Batman and Quiver were still looking for him.

This news did not go down well with Persky, who expected his new fellow's contacts to mean something. The second guard Slipp attacked had died and the police still had nothing. An inspection of the madman's padded cell turned up a dozen butyrophenone capsules stuffed in a nearly imperceptible tear in the cushioned walls. Martha wanted the nursing assistant responsible for seeing that Slipp took the pills fired, but Persky pointed out that they were already two guards down and couldn't afford to lose additional personnel. Besides, this is how things were at Arkham. Inmates outsmarted staff all of the time. It was infuriating and often deadly, but it was also a fact of life at the asylum. She had better get used to it.

Not likely, Martha thought fervently as she poured over Slipp's files in a desperate attempt to anticipate where he might hide. He had no family here – his roots were in rural Missouri. Could he have skipped Gotham? Martha thought this unlikely. A megalomaniac like Slipp would want to trumpet his triumph over the authorities by doing something immediate, outrageous and brutal. He'd want to rub it in their faces, and he'd want to make headlines doing so. If they didn't catch him in the next several hours, Martha thought, someone was going to die. Horribly.

* * *

As she watched the police photographer take snapshots of the mutilated woman, still bound with handcuffs to a hot radiator, she took no satisfaction in the accuracy of her prediction. She was trying desperately not to vomit, not only in reaction to the desecrated nude body, but out of a sense that this was somehow her fault. Slipp was her patient. She should have known he'd been ducking his meds. She should have accompanied the guards to the preliminary hearing.

"Doctor?" A familiar-looking cop looked at her, and then nodded at the body. Martha slipped on a pair of latex gloves and stepped forward.

The woman's wrists were burned and bloody. Slipp had adjusted the heavy-duty cuffs tight enough to cut into the bone. Whatever torture he'd put her through had made the woman struggle so frantically that she'd almost amputated her own hands in an effort to break free. There were long, deep purple bruises on each side of the victim's neck.

"He used his feet," murmured Martha.

"To strangle her?" the cop asked.

"Yeah. Just enough so she was on the brink of unconsciousness – but not quite there. If she's unconscious, she doesn't suffer. He gets off on the suffering, the terror." Martha meant this last statement literally – but she didn't want to discuss the sexual details with a room full of police officers. If Shipp's perversities made the news, there were sure to be copycats.

She turned and examined the officer's face; it seemed a tired reflection of her own. "You're – I know you."

He nodded. "Don Ieiri. Met you on your first night." Martha frowned. She gave her head a slight shake. "Harvey Dent. The pizza," Ieiri added.

She slipped off the gloves and snapped them into a nearby trash can. "Oh yeah. Wish this one was that easy."

Martha looked up and he was there, standing in the darkest corner: Batman. She wondered how long he'd been there and how much of a fuck-up he thought she was for letting her patient get away – to do _this_. She didn't hear Ieiri say, "It's rarely that easy."

"Would you please tell your sergeant that I'll send him a copy of my report?" she asked Ieiri. She wanted to get out of there while Batman was still fixed on the victim. Martha had nothing to say to him and she was pretty sure she didn't want to hear anything he might have to say to her.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _The Crooked Cobra_

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

Martha sipped her eighth cup of coffee and wished caffeine had some effect on her. Her eyelids felt like they were made of sandpaper. Unsteadily, she rose from the couch. She couldn't remember when she had slept last. The days she'd spent as Dr. Martha Kent had blurred into the nights she was spending as Superwoman. Both of them were working desperately to catch Salvatore Slipp before he murdered again. Both of them were failing to make any headway.

"You can _not_ go out again." Lian had traded her Quiver regalia for a man's pajama top. Her face was pale beneath her freshly washed hair

"You've really got to stop channeling my mother," Martha said softly. She smiled without a trace of humor and promised, "I'll get some sleep over the weekend." Her fingers slipped over the hologram generator and she disappeared into her tall blonde masquerade.

Lian worried her lower lip. Like Martha, she had spent every waking moment searching for Slipp. Unlike her roommate, those waking moments had been interrupted with four- and five-hour blocks of sleep. Lian had seen Martha drive herself like this before. She would force herself brutally onward until she accomplished her mission – or collapsed, depleted and sick. "You haven't slept in _four _days."

Martha did hear her, barely, from the other side of their open window. She just didn't have time to answer as she pushed off into the night.

* * *

At 2:00 AM, Martha Kent's Arkham-issued pager went off. Superwoman touched down in the nearest ally, leaned wearily against the decaying brick wall and eyed the text message: _1824 K St. Third Fl. Sgt. Nieves_. Her stomach lurched. _Not another one. Please_.

The Crime Alley address was just a few blocks away. Slipp's first post-escape attack had been just one block north from K on Silver Street

When she walked through the open apartment a few moments later, Martha was glad to see Officer Ieiri's familiar face in the brassy florescent light. The darker figure lurking in the room's darkest corner was a less comforting sight.

There was no victim in the living room, but Martha guarded herself against any sense of relief. The apartment had bedrooms.

"We think we have something," Ieiri told her. It was his tone, professional, but friendly, that caused her to allow her shoulders to relax. Neither his face, nor his voice suggested he had just seen a tortured corpse.

Sgt. Nieves, a towering balding man of about 43, introduced himself and explained that a neighbor had reported the resident of this particular apartment for reasons that seemed specious to him. "But we have to check everything out," he added. The neighbor claimed he'd heard women crying out for help from this apartment in the past, but he'd never felt moved to call the police before he'd heard about the reward for information leading to the arrest of Salvatore Slipp.

"Also, the guy apparently has a snake tattooed on the inside of each forearm," said Ieiri. "Runs straight down from elbow to wrist."

"Hard to scream when you're being asphyxiated," said Martha skeptically. The cops nodded. "Have you talked to the guy?"

They hadn't. Nieves had convinced a judge to hand down a warrant allowing them to search the place when the apartment was empty. Slipp was too dangerous to confront with anything less than a SWAT team.

"Sarge!" A very young officer charged out of one of the bedrooms, carrying something black and fuzzy. With almost comic enthusiasm for his exciting find, the officer stretched a pair of padded wrist restraints.

Nieves examined the item without taking it from the officer. He seemed equally disgusted and intrigued by the device. Ieiri let out a slow whistle.

"Something?" Ieiri asked Martha.

Martha slipped on a pair of latex gloves and held out her hand. The officer tossed them to her. The restraints were worn and cheaply made, she noted. The whole contraption reminded her of a black party balloon animal that had started to run out of air. She definitely needed sleep, she thought. She was getting giddy.

All three cops were watching her with an interest they might not have afforded a male psychiatrist. Martha stuck her index finger into one of the puffy padded cuffs and twirled it around.

"Oh, c'mon, guys," she said. She felt herself smiling for the first time in days. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Batman shift slightly, watching her. It was an enormous reaction coming from him and she decided to play with it. "You going to arrest everyone who likes a little light restraint with their sex and search them for snake tattoos?"

"But –" It was the younger cop, crushed that his find had come to nothing.

Martha neatly caught the twirling cuffs and said, "Slipp tightens metal cuffs on these women until their wrists are bloody. These 'bracelets' are made to protect the user from ouchies and they're fastened with Velcro.

"Those girls the neighbor claims he heard screaming?" she added. "Probably playacting."

"So he's just a pervert," Nieves said.

"Don't know that he's a pervert," said Martha amiably. "There are lots of reasons why someone might enjoy a little faux bondage under safe conditions. She rattled off a few of them, fully aware that her exhaustion was now tampering with her good judgment. "Ties or scarves are cheaper though," she added. She tossed the plaything back to the officer. "Sorry. This was a waste of time."

Nieves thanked Martha for her time and ordered his men to wrap things up. Martha, still inclined to avoid Batman, headed quickly into the hallway. She was surprised to find that Ieiri had followed her.

"Dr. Kent." Ieiri looked a little sheepish. He rubbed the side of his forehead nervously. "This is kind of awkward, but…." He took a deep breath. "Do you want to get some coffee sometime?"

She must have looked as surprised as she felt, because Ieiri added quickly, "It's not because of… that thing… in there..." he jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the apartment. "I mean…."

Martha placed a quick, gentle hand on his forearm. "I really appreciate you asking," she said. "But I can't."

"You don't date cops?" asked Ieiri tensely.

Her eyes found the ground. "No. Sorry."

* * *

Ieiri had waited until she'd disappeared down the hallway before muttering, "Bitch."

"She was engaged to a cop once." The voice, deep and harsh, was unmistakable. Ieiri found himself turning towards Batman. Martha's rejection had embarrassed the cop; Batman witnessing it mortified him.

"He left her?" Ieiri asked.

"Involuntarily."

It took Ieiri a few moments to work that out. "Oh," he said quietly.

"Find Slipp," said Batman. "Worry about your social life later."

* * *

Lian would have laughed at her for worrying about it, but Martha hated to hurt people's feelings. She always imagined herself in the other person's position and in truth she usually felt things too strongly. On top of the prowling catastrophe that was Slipp, she was now agonizing over embarrassing Ieiri. He seemed like such a nice guy – but she wasn't dating a cop again.

She had met Dave Hughes in the small weight training room at Metropolis High School when she was 15 years old. Martha just was finishing ninth grade; Dave was visiting some old teachers after completing his first year as a criminal justice major at Metropolis City College. A weight pin fell out of the machine she was using; he picked it up.

"The key to my heart," Martha joked as he handed her the pin.

He responded seriously, "I think it's the key to mine."

Lois and Clark had been troubled about the age difference at first – 19 seemed astronomically older than 15 – but Dave made it clear that he respected their concerns and that he had nothing but honorable intentions towards their daughter. He treated Martha with reverence and affection. In return, he was treated like the Kents' second son. Dave had been a Metropolis cop for three years when he and Martha became engaged after her sophomore year at Central City University. She let Clark fill her fiancé in on the family secret. While Dave was as amazed as any young man might be to discover that his future father-in-law was Superman – and his future wife, Supergirl, he adjusted to the news with characteristic ease. Everything seemed perfect until an hour before Dave's shift ended on the night of their engagement party. He and his partner made routine traffic stop on a Nissan Suprema with an expired registration sticker. The driver had a bench warrant, a gun and a tendency to panic. The combination left Martha Kent not quite a widow at 20 years old.

She walked for a while, without the hologram. She didn't look remotely like a woman who belonged in Crime Alley, but she had no reason to feel threatened and she barely noticed the blatant stares of the addicts and prostitutes she passed.

It was easier to think on her feet and she knew brains beat physical prowess when it came to tracking down bad guys. Of course, luck wasn't a bad thing either, Martha mused, as her eyes found a chipped, weather-beaten bar sign at the corner of M and Burke Streets: The Crooked Cobra. Even from the outside, Martha could tell the bar was screaming for a health department raid. She knew she would look out of place in her Reeboks and light green Old Navy sweater, but it didn't stop her from entering the bar, a dark, foul-smelling cavern, and ordering a Sam Adams Light.

The bartender, who looked like he might have been rejected by the Hell's Angels for hygiene issues, snickered nastily as he openly inspected her body. "We got Bud here, Sweetheart. And none a that light shit."

Martha felt her face start to harden – an instinctive reaction when someone was trying to intimidate her. She forced herself to smile at the bartender as harmlessly as she could. Let him think she was stupid. He'd talk more that way.

"Do you have White Zin?" she asked.

"White _what_?" The bartender's bulbous face broke into a mocking grin and Martha winced at the rows of rotting incisors.

She felt a body slide onto the stool next to hers. A rougher – but kinder – voice said, "I think you might be in the wrong place, Miss."

The man who sat next to her was hairy and plump and Martha thought he might be the reason the bar smelled so bad. He seemed nice enough, though, especially in comparison to the establishment's proprietor.

"I know," she said. "But I'm pledging a sorority and they said I had to have a drink here." The bartender, whose evening had clearly been made, started shouting this information to a group of patrons sitting in a cluster at the other end of the bar.

The man sitting next to her ignored their guffaws and said, "I don't think they must be nice girls, then. Maybe you'd better call a cab." He pushed up the sleeves of his nylon jacket and took a sip of his beer. He nodded at the bartender. "Toad will call you one. He might charge you a dollar."

He had a burn scar in the shape of a watch around his right wrist. Martha was wondering how he got it as her eyes traveled higher, to the tattoo on his forearm. Another snake tattoo. They were certainly popular around….

"Where did you get that tattoo?" she asked urgently, her voice free of every trace of the naïve sorority girl. It wasn't just a snake tattoo, she thought. It was _exactly_ like one that Slipp had on his left quadriceps.

"You like it?" The man seemed pleased. "Got it not long ago. The wife don't like it much. Coulda paid some bills with the money, she said —"

Martha was staring at the tattoo so hard that had she inherited her father's heat vision, she might have burned it off. "Where did you get it?" she asked through gritted teeth. "I want one."

The man was taken aback. "C'mon, honey," he said. "You ain't that kind of girl."

Her blazing brown eyes bored into his and she threw two twenties on the bar. "Think they're open now?"

Her companion eyed the bills hungrily. "It's that kind of place. Open all night. But they ain't nice people in there, sweetheart."

She stood and pushed the money into his hand. "Let's go."

As the door swung behind them, she heard Toad hoot, "Hey, Billy's getting lucky. You go, Billy. Have some for me." Billy looked pressed his lips together in embarrassment, but Martha was too preoccupied to care how her virtue might be appraised by a Crime Alley bartender.

They hadn't overlooked Slipp's tattoos or the probability that he'd want to complete the design he'd started on the lower half of his body. The cops had searched every parlor in Gotham, armed with photos of Slipp and his tats. No one had seen him. Nor had anyone recognized the obscure designs that were now engraved on the madman's skin, although several tattooists commented that whoever put them there was a real artist.

Billy led Martha to a line of row houses on Tanner Street that reeked of decaying brick, mold and urine. The attached homes were visibly sinking: The stone steps leading to each threshold were cracked and uneven. Billy stopped in the middle of the block and jerked his head toward a house with a foot-sized hole in the middle of the rotting wooden porch.

"You shouldn't do this, hon," he said.

Martha touched a hand to his upper arm. "Billy. Time for you to go home."

He looked crestfallen. He'd expected to join her on her ink art adventure. He thought for a moment. "Are you sure about this, hon? I got a daughter myself almost your age. I'd hate to leave her in a place like this alone."

Martha assured him that she'd be fine. It took a daughterly kiss on the cheek – a significant price to pay considering how much he reeked – to send him on his way. As soon as he disappeared around the corner, Superwoman materialized on the darkened porch.

She popped the locks as quietly as she could. This was where she and her father parted company when it came to crimefighting. Superman would break down a door in an instant if he heard someone crying out for help, but he was adamantly against this sort of illegal search and seizure. On the other hand, she thought ironically, this was one thing Batman would not give her hell for. His regard for criminals' rights was less generous than hers.

Laughter and rough, deep voices reached Martha as soon as she slipped through the door. They seemed to be coming from the basement. The house smelled of alcohol – both isopropyl and recreational – as well as cigarettes and cat litter. She grimaced and moved down the basement steps, making sure to keep herself alight just an inch or so above the ground so that they would not hear her footsteps.

There were four men in the basement. Three were lumber-jack sized, with pit-stained t-shirts and sleeve tattoos. Among them was a bearded man working a needle against the lower back of a shirtless customer. Even from thirty feet away in the middle of the basement steps, Martha recognized the long, lean body of Salvatore Slipp.

She didn't announce her presence or make a big production of apprehending Slipp. Superwoman never talked much – as Midori pointed out, Martha didn't do a great job of disguising her voice and she hadn't ever taken the time to fully develop a second persona – and the sight of Slipp filled her with speechless rage. She simply rocketed down the stairs and grabbed Slipp by his neck. Possibly out of stunned reflex, the artist lunged at her with his tattoo gun; she swatted it away without thinking. She grabbed the inker by the belt and flew both him and Slipp through every ceiling and roof between them and the sky. She left the tattooist dangling on an old satellite dish, where the police would find him half an hour later.

Superwoman truly didn't like to hurt people – even the bad guys – and ordinarily, she made every attempt not to do so. She made no effort to be gentle with Slipp, however, as she dragged him down the empty corridors of Arkham. He was conscious, though barely, when she opened the door of his cell. He made the bad decision to raise his eyes to hers and work his lips together in a silent hiss and she slammed him against the padded wall hard enough to give him a concussion.

* * *

Devon Persky had hit the drowse button twice when the phone on his night table rang. He eyed it reluctantly. Calls this early were never good, especially when the luminous red letters on his caller ID read "Arkham Asylum." He waited until the answering machine clicked on; when he heard Martha Kent's voice, he lifted the receiver.

"He's back." She sounded exhausted.

"Slipp?" Relief surged through Persky's chest.

"Yeah. He's in his cell."

"Who found him?" he asked. "Batman?"

Martha hesitated. "Yeah."

Thank God. Now the press would find someone else to persecute, Persky thought. And the board would be happy. For an Arkham inmate, a four-day escape wasn't half bad. Some of those maniacs would disappear for months, even years.

"Tell my secretary to call a press conference," he said. "Then go home. You sound beat."

"I'll tell her," his newest fellow replied. "But I've got too many patients to catch up on. I'll see you when you get in."

* * *

**Next Chapter:**_ Love thy enemy_

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

Night was falling by the time Martha left the asylum. She was nowhere near caught up, but she'd hit a wall and was now so tired she knew it would be dangerous for her to drive. Fortunately, she'd found a safe spot to ditch her car when she needed to make a quicker exit. Soon she was touching down in the alley behind her apartment building.

"Kent." Batman stepped out from the shadows. For a moment, she hoped he wouldn't praise her for apprehending Slipp as Lian had over the telephone. She smiled bitterly. This was Batman, after all. He wasn't big with the compliments. "How'd you get him?"

Martha shambled over to the big, dark crime fighter, standing close enough to him so she could speak softly. She knew her account of the arrest wasn't terribly coherent but it was the best she could manage at the moment. Five days without sleep made it way past her bedtime. Her knees were wobbling and she was beginning to wonder if she'd make it to the second floor. She didn't want Batman to see her collapse.

He listened to report without comment, digested it for a moment, and asked, "Why did you tell them I caught him?"

She closed her eyes. "I didn't want any credit. Not as me or as Superwoman."

"Slipp's going to tell a different story."

Martha's eyes snapped open. "He's a fuckin' madman."

If her language surprised or offended him, he did not show it. "I don't like taking credit for things I don't do. Why didn't you want it?"

"You know why." He didn't respond. Martha took a deep breath. "It was my fault he escaped. I should have known he was off his meds. I should have gone to the hearing."

This time, he did look surprised. "You think it's your fault he escaped? _Your_ fault?"

He ran a hand over his weathered face and moved so close she had to resist the urge to step back. "You know, Kent, when you first got here, I thought you'd become incredibly arrogant"

Oh, she needed this right now. "Wow. Thanks."

"Shut up." She stared at him. Neither as Batman nor as Bruce Wayne had he been truly rude to her before. His eyes scanned the alley momentarily and she could read his frustration clear through his mask. "Then I thought, no, you were just so exuberant and so ridiculously optimistic that it just came off that way. But I was right the first time, Kent," he added. "You _are_ arrogant."

She wasn't tired anymore. She was incensed.

"_I'm_ arrogant? My God, look who's talking! No one's good enough to work in this city but you. No one's even –"

His words steamrolled over her own. "Who do you think you are?" he whispered furiously. "Do you think you can walk into Arkham with a fistful of degrees and turn a bunch of psychopaths – _near-genius_ psychopaths, some of them – into repentant eunuchs? Thirty years worth of shrinks with a combined couple of centuries more experience than you can't fix the place, but you're going to waltz in there as a first year fellow and turn everything around?"

His anger seemed to intensify with the pace of his own words. "Your girlish laugh and straight A's may have made you teacher's pet, Kent, but they're worthless at Arkham."

This last sentence threw her. "Teacher's pet?" she asked, visibly confused.

Batman froze and Martha could see that he'd surprised himself. Whatever his words meant, he had clearly not intended to say them.

"You think Persky favors me?" Could he have meant someone else? "Or Roy?"

But his face had recovered its usual stony countenance. Martha turned away from Batman before he could see the medley of rage, hurt and bewilderment play across her eyes.

It was just that she was tired, she told herself as she reached the top of the stairwell. She was exhausted and he was an asshole and that's why she felt like crying.

* * *

Some people just bring out the worst in you. Clark had always managed to push his buttons, thought Batman as he tried to beat the sunrise home. Now his daughter was doing the same thing. He had come to this conclusion while going through the motions during a fairly quiet night. Two junkies had tried to knock over a 7-11 and he had taken care of that. Then he'd stopped a man from beating his wife – though Batman was sure the woman had dropped the charges the moment he'd left the police station. He had done everything mechanically, though, preoccupied since late evening with the argument he'd had with Martha Kent.

Argument. More like a berating, he thought, as he pulled into the Batcave. And why? He didn't like the girl: OK. But she did try and she'd beaten the crap out of herself finding Slipp. Batman didn't completely disbelieve everything he'd said, but he'd overstated to the extreme. And that "teacher's pet" comment…. Totally out of line. He shook his head. He didn't know where _that _had come from. He was the last person to expect sexual sainthood from anyone. He was just glad she hadn't made the connection. He wasn't sure how hard a slap in the face he could take from an outraged half-Kryptonian, no matter how tired she was.

He pulled off his mask and dropped his head back against the headrest. This was going to bother him until he apologized – and the idea of doing that didn't feel too great, either.

To Bruce Wayne's displeasure, it was Lian who answered the apartment door. He did not like Lian for a number of reasons, not the least of which concerned her behavior several years earlier during a short, disastrous marriage to his third Robin, Tim Drake. Tim had remarried happily and was expecting his second child, but Bruce still held a grudge. Roy Harper had said his daughter had issues. This was an understatement in Bruce's opinion. Lian's "issues," he believed, hurt others considerably more than they did her. He had never understood her friendship with Martha Kent. He couldn't think of two more dissimilar people.

One glance told him that Martha had shared the details of their argument with Lian. She looked like she wanted to punch him.

"She here?" he asked, as he walked past her into the apartment. It seemed unusually quiet.

"She's sleeping," said Lian acidly. "She won't be waking up today." She meant this literally. Martha would probably slumber through the entire weekend in order to replenish herself; it was the inevitable aftermath of five sleepless nights. "Arrogant of her, isn't it?"

He stewed behind his impassive mask. It hadn't been easy for him to come here. Lian was making it nearly impossible. Still, it was better to get his regrets out there. "I came here to apologize."

Lian raised an eyebrow. "I'll tell her."

"I'll talk to her myself," said Bruce. He had not intended for his admission to become a second-hand apology.

"Oh, she'll forgive you," said Lian, in a tone that suggested such forgiveness would be poor judgment on Martha's part. "It's that whole Buddhist non-aversion thing."

Bruce felt his brows knit together. "She's a Buddhist? I thought she was a Methodist."

"Her _father's_ a Methodist," said Lian. "At least, he was raised one. Her mother's an atheist. _Martha_ is a Buddhist. You don't know anything about her," she added disgustedly.

Almost imperceptibly, Bruce shook his head. He didn't really need to know anything about Martha Kent, other than how to avoid her. "I'll catch her later," he said. Lian dropped onto the couch, crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. That was fine with Bruce. He didn't need her help finding the door.

* * *

Martha slept through her alarm clock on Monday morning and the dozen ice cubes Lian dumped on her neck did nothing to rouse her. She did not so much as stretch until Lian began beating her over the face with her spare pillow. She wasn't fully awake until about fifteen minutes before she needed to clock in at Arkham, but, fortunately, Martha didn't need a lot of preparation time. She took a 30-second shower, leapt into her clothes, stuffed a blueberry scone in her mouth and made it to her office with a minute to spare.

She felt gloriously refreshed, emotionally as well as physically. She would never forget the image of the bound, tortured woman whose life Slipp had choked away, but she could look at the incident in perspective now and feel grateful that at least she'd managed to capture the murderous maniac. She could get on with her work now, of understanding what made killers like Slipp tick and using that insight to develop protocols for identifying and preventing this sort of sociopathology in children. That was why she had gone into medicine. She had realized fairly early during her superhero career that crime fighters were essentially big flying Band-Aids. In order to create a society without crime, she believed, you had to eliminate the desire to be a criminal.

Even her quarrel with Batman had bolstered her optimism. Not everything he said had been off the mark. She had applied to Arkham in order to learn; she had forgotten that when her instant success with Harvey had gone to her head. She had been naïve to think she could have anticipated Slipp's deception with his medication or his brutal attack on the guards. She did not believe she was arrogant, but she could see how her blithe demeanor could be perceived that way.

Martha Kent fervently believed that a person was responsible for his or her own happiness. Despite the crushing loss of Dave eight years ago, she knew that she had lived a privileged life. This was firsthand, not academic, knowledge: At her parents' insistence, both she and Clay had spent summers volunteering in refugee camps in the most desolate parts of the world. She had seen emaciated, disease-infested children, some of them missing fingers or limbs, scream in happy play while bombs went off three or four miles away. She had washed the wounds of an old woman who hadn't eaten in days, and who had lost all of her children and grandchildren to AIDS. The woman had patted Martha on the cheek and said through broken teeth that she should smile, because life was short and no one knew what came after.

No one could stop you from being happy, if that's what you really wanted, Martha believed. What she did not understand was why so many people – people like Bruce Wayne, for instance – chose to be miserable.

Lian told her he had come to apologize – Martha had nearly choked on the scone she was shoveling into her mouth – and her response was as her roommate had predicted. She would not mention the incident again, unless he did, and she would be genuinely friendly the next time she saw him.

This was in part because of the Buddhist precept of non-attachment to anger that Lian had mentioned to Bruce. Martha had found great comfort in the teachings of the Buddha and she tried to make them a part of her life. But she had other philosophical heroes as well, and one of them was her mother. Long ago, Lois Lane gave her a piece of advice that seemed to fit perfectly when it came to Martha's encounters with Bruce Wayne: _Love thy enemy. It will drive him crazy._

Martha smiled to herself and picked up one of three new charts the staff secretary had tossed on her desk. A would-be chainsaw killer, a guy who shaved the hair off of his victims and an old guy called Victor Zsasz had been had been added to her growing caseload. She picked up the phone and canceled a lunch date she'd made with her dad a week earlier. It was going to be a busy day.

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _The not-so-shy Thai_

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

RÉSO, Montreal's underground city, was thick with Christmas shoppers, but Lian was on a mission and ignored Meera's suggestion that they return at another time. She was determined to get Midori out of the utilitarian garb she had worn during her first months on Earth and horrified at her new friend's attempt – apparently with Roy's assistance and credit card – to order clothes from the Internet.

"She looks like a skank _and _a dockworker!" Lian railed at her father. "How did you manange that?"

Midori - whose emerald skin was drawing expected stares - Martha and Meera navigated through a food court thick with cranky shoppers, valiantly trying to keep pace with Lian. The latter two, both of whom yearned for the comfort of an oversized Barnes and Noble they'd passed, were growing impatient from hours of watching Midori emerge from dressing rooms, gamely attempting to please her new fashion coach. When Lian declared herself satisfied, sometime after 7 PM, they shouted "No!" in unison when the redhead aimed Midori towards a stylish hair salon.

"Oh, God, this is good," moaned Martha as she sank deeper into the thick blue recliner and aimed her shoeless feet towards the crackling fireplace in Meera's living room. She reached for the thick slice of Chicago-style pizza sitting in a plate in her lap, took a bite, closed her eyes in ecstasy and said, "Oh, baby."

"You're easy," Meera said, stroking her aching temples. "I need a brandy after that ordeal." She was joking. Like Roy and Lian, Meera didn't drink, though her reasons were notably different from her colleagues.

Emma Jai, Meera's wife, placed a small container of hot peppers on the small table next to Martha and smiled. "Hard day of shopping, huh?"

"It was _wonderful_," said Lian dreamily. "Midori is going to look gorgeous."

Diffidently, Midori said, "I hope we didn't keep anyone out too long, though."

Lian waved a dismissive hand at Meera and Martha. "Ignore those whiners. This was an emergency." She looked deeply into Midori's eyes, as though relaying the most important information ever. "Never, never allow my father to shop for you. You'll end up with a combination of Frederick's of Hollywood and Aramark."

It was clear that neither of these establisments were familiar to Midori, who nonetheless said, "OK."

"Atta girl," said Meera, handing Emma a piece of pizza from a near-empty box. "You've learned when not to ask Lian to elaborate."

Lian ignored her. "We'll get your hair cut tomorrow. You don't need a speck of make-up. The guys are going to love you." As an afterthought, she added. "You like guys, right?"

"I think so?" Midori said. "On Colu, we don't have the complicated mating rituals you have here. Everything is much more orderly."

Lian laughed. "Well, thank God you've left there," she said. "The mess is what makes it so much fun."

Martha added, "But stay away from Gren. He's a buffoon, but he's got his share of groupies." Grendel spent much of his time at League Headquarters. Roy had caught him coming on to Midori twice. The Coluan woman had been clueless, but Roy wasn't amused. He himself had botched his way through several serious relationships and two marriages, but he had never intentionally harmed a woman. He felt responsible for Midori and didn't intend to let a belt-notcher like Gendel exploit his innocent new protegee

Emma offered, "There are a lot of nice guys." Lian smirked at her.

"Well, they're not any fun," she said.

"Yes, they are," said Martha firmly. She smiled at Meera and Emma. "This has been great. Gotta go, though. Lots of work tomorrow." She carried her plate into the kitchen and placed it in the dishwasher. Lian had not moved when she returned to the living room. Martha looked at her questioningly.

"I'll hang around," Lian said vaguely. "Probably, I'll go back with Midori."

"She's staying here tonight," said Meera. "You're welcome, of course."

As she coasted over the cold Canadian air, Martha tried to push away the thought that Lian was hiding something. Her roommate was a fairly transparent person. In the lifetime Martha had known her, she had concealed only one thing, a shameful secret Martha fervently hoped was deep in Lian's past.

* * *

The scientist's hand shook so badly his drink sloshed all over his tuxedo pants and dress shoes. Reardon gently removed the glass from his trembling fingers and asked him to repeat again what he had been doing before the scythe had whizzed past his head.

Dr. Terrence Oh looked wildly about the evacuated ballroom, gripped the hand of his equally frightened wife and dragged in a shuddering breath.

"Just started my speech…. Felt a breeze near my left ear," he shook his head. "Think I heard a… a _thwack_ and that thing is in the wall behind me."

His wife, a stylish blonde woman in a white sequinned dress whispered, "Where was the security?" Reardon could see her terror shifting into anger. "You knew there were threats…."

The Four Seasons Hotel at Gotham had provided a dozen armed security guards, both uniformed and plainclothes, for the conference, Reardon knew. Her own department had contributed ten officers, most of them working overtime, to protect Oh and his fellow scientists from the overzealous protesters who objected to the conference honoring recent strides in cloning on the grounds that the science defied God's will. Most of the protesters had been vociferous, but not disrespectful. Some had even joked good-naturedly with the security team. Someone, however, seriously objected to Oh's development of a process that would clone specific organs in vitro, without the need for reproducing an entire person. That someone had either tried to kill the scientist or hired someone else to do so. The assassin's weapon of choice bothered Reardon. She would have rather be digging a bullet out of the wall than an arcane martial arts weapon.

She heard a familiar scattering behind her and was not surprised, when she turned around, to see Batman approaching her. She filled him in as succinctly as possible. Reardon knew better than to waste his time with chit-chat.

He asked if a watchlist had been compiled of possible threats to the conference participants. She did, though the list consisted of only one person and two organizations, all of them right-wing and religious. Only the individual was an extremist, Batman recalled. And he was last sighted in Idaho. "These people aren't known to be violent," he said.

"I hope you're talking about us, Batman," a voice behind him said. Both he and Reardon turned towards the speaker, a serious looking woman in her fifties. She wore a business suit and a button that said, "Donate – That's Great. Don't Clone – Atone."

She introduced herself as Cassandra Fuego, president of the Gotham Branch of The Interfaith Alliance Against Cloning. "Please know that we would never condone violence of any sort against _anybody_," she said. "It's antithetical to everything we believe in." She leaned around them to address Oh personally. "Dr. Oh, please know we'll do everything we can to assist in the capture of this ungodly person."

Oh nodded vacantly. Batman said. "Your group is peaceful. We know that. Any members you may have thrown out lately for expressing a more extreme view?"

Fuego shook her head. "No. It's a big group, though. I can put some feelers out."

"Please do," said Reardon. "And get back to me if you find anything." Fuego agreed and strode quickly from the ballroom.

A ballistics detective approached them, holding the scythe, now sheathed in plastic. He handed it to Reardon, who studied it for a few seconds, before turning it over to Batman.

"Thai," he said, examining blade before focusing his attention on the ornately carved handle. "Seems to have some sort of animal design on it."

"Looks like one of those Temple dogs," said Reardon. "Although that's Chinese."

He frowned. "Anyone get a look at the would-be assassin?"

Reardon shook her head. "Wouldn't that be lucky? Not as far as I could tell. We confiscated a bunch of camera phones in the hopes something might come up, but it'll take hours to go through them.

Batman looked at her. "Can I borrow them? I'll have them back before dawn."

Reardon wasn't nuts about this idea, but she never said no to Batman. She'd taken a lot of heat for this, but she'd never been wrong in trusting him. "Sure. Just share the wealth, OK?"

* * *

Bruce waited as photos from 15 cameras uploaded themselves onto the Batcave's main computer. He sipped at a cup of tea Alfred placed on a coaster near his elbow and wrinkled his nose.

"What's this?" he asked, raising his mug toward the butler. He usually served Earl Grey in the evening.

"White tea," Alfred replied serenely. "Three times the anti-oxidants and a third of the caffiene. Quiet good, don't you think?"

Bruce sipped at the steaming liquid again and replied, "Different. Where'd you get it?"

Alfred said, "I have my sources," and wandered toward a monitor that suddenly needed dusting. Bruce hoped Alfred wasn't on another health kick, as the last one resulted in him serving Bruce only skinless, boiled chicken and brown rice for months. He looked up as the computer clicked and whirred and pumped hundreds of photographs onto his own wide-screen monitor. He was faintly amused by the number of people who used their cameras to commemorate sexual escapades, and by the even larger number of amateur photographers who seemed to believe they could capture the magic of a single flower with a low-definition cell phone camera. Eliminating those and other irrelevant photos took him almost an hour. What he was left with was a disappointing collection of blurs and shadows. He shook his head. Waste of time.

On the off-chance that the computer might catch something he hadn't, Bruce activated a program that matched small groups of bits with any similar arrangement stored anywhere in his sizable computer network. No luck. He thought a moment about the scythe's Asian origins and dialed into the Justice League mainframe.

The program worked for a few minutes, to his mild surprise, spit out the original photo – which looked like a brown blur to Bruce – and a clearer image of a long, muscular forearm releasing what looked like a similar weapon. Under this second image was the caption _DevilDog (__Tuksin Techapongvorachai)._

The Batcave's secure line rang and Alfred handed him the phone. "Yeah?"

"Are you fucking with our computer?" It was Gren Gardner.

"Yeah. Who's DevilDog?"

"Assassin. Charges a million dollars a hit."

Bruce scratched the back of his neck. How could a million-dollar assassin get past his notice? "League fight him?"

Gren said, "Not the group. Superwoman's put him away and I've fought him. He's not so great. Operates mostly in Asia."

"What do you mean, 'he's not so great'? It seemed like a strange comment, even coming from Gren.

"The girls think he's hot," said Grendel darkly.

Bruce didn't know whether Gren meant that DevilDog had groupies, or whether he was referring to their female teammates. He didn't want to find out. He closed his eyes, exasperated. "OK. I'm going to copy your files to my computer and be offline in ten minutes."

* * *

Bruce considered picking the lock when Martha Kent failed to answer her apartment door, but it was 2 AM and Lian had said Martha was a deep sleeper. He dialed her home number on his cell phone and waited. She picked up on the third ring.

"H'lo?" she murmured. Her voice was low and thick with sleep.

"I'm at your front door."

A few seconds later, he heard her shuffling to the front of the apartment, then fumbling with the lock, a process that made him impatient and irritable. He pushed past her when she opened the door.

"Hey," she said, sleepily. She pushed back a lock of disheveled brown hair and crossed her arms over the front of a very short yellow satin bathrobe. She wore nothing visible beneath it. Bruce caught himself staring before she did and directed his gaze to a black porcelain Buddha statue on the coffee table.

"That new?" he asked.

"Nah," said unaware of his discomfort. "Just getting around to unpacking the knickknacks." She paused, then said, "What's up?" just as Bruce asked, "What do you know about DevilDog?"

She broke into a smile, significantly more awake. "The not-so-shy Thai! He's in Gotham?"

"Yeah," Bruce replied bleakly. Gren hadn't been referring to groupies, after all. He filled her in on the attempted hit at the Four Seasons. "You've fought him three times. What's his story?"

Martha held up an index finger, then wandered back into her bedroom. He hoped she was getting dressed, but she returned moments later with a laptop and no additional clothing. He found her unselfconscious half-nudity in his presence vaguely insulting, but her behavior wasn't particularly unusual for someone her age. Lian was known for wearing much less in considerably more formal situations. Decades of cable television had set modesty on its last legs.

She set the computer up on a small, round dining room table and motioned him to join her.

"You're not the only one with secured files," she said, as he pulled the second chair next to hers. It was a laughable statement. Her encription codes were close to worthless, but she did have the sense to title her files, "Possible Arkham Patients – Get Ready!" even though few of the criminals listed in her small database were technically insane.

She clicked on a file labled "TT." A series of photos of DevilDog, several of them showing him in flight, popped onto the screen. He was somewhere between 25 and 30, Bruce noted, with long black hair and a lean, limber torso. He wore a tight red suit with white and yellow trim.

"He flies," Bruce noted.

"Yeah," said Martha. "He's about as strong as me, too. Almost as fast – not quite." As an afterthought, she added, "He also uses weapons."

He tilted his head sideways so that his eyes met hers. "How'd he get the powers?"

Martha ran her tongue over her lips, her eyes distant. "The Thai government engaged in some very unethical experiments a while back. Tuksin was a young kid in a refugee camp. No family. He disappeared and no one missed him."

"And now he kills people for a million dollars," Bruce said. He skimmed her notes, but Martha had told him most of what he needed to know. "Has he got any weaknesses?"

"Doesn't everybody?" Her grin was a little jaded this time. "Well, there's his ego. He's learned a lot of moves – that muy thai stuff. But it's not really a matter of moves, is it? It's how you integrate them, so that they're in your bones." She looked at Bruce. "Basically, I just beat him up. He's a better fighter, technically, but….

"You want to win more," Bruce finished.

She nodded. "This actually might be an opportunity for us. The Asian jails I've dumped him in won't hold him and SuperMax here won't take him because his crimes haven't been –"

"— on U.S. soil," said Bruce. He nodded at the computer as she started to shut it down. "I could improve that for you. Better encryption –"

"And suck all my files into your database," said Martha knowingly. "I'd rather keep them to myself, thanks."

He said nothing. She owned a Wayne Industries computer and he had access every single one of them. Infiltrating her computer would be as easy as keying in her serial number.

"I think a question we need to ask," Martha was saying, "Is who would pay a million bucks to kill this scientist?"

"Religious fanatics?" Bruce suggested. He thought this possiblity unlikely himself, but it was too obvious to dismiss out of hand.

Martha shook her head. Her face segued into a series of frowns, forehead creases and eyebrow shifts as she worked it out. It was a fascinating process to watch. "Money's a bigger motivator than morals. Who stands to lose if Oh and his team start cloning body parts?"

"Black market organ traffickers," said Bruce. Martha nodded. He grudgingly allowed himself to be impressed. So she was smart.

"All right then, Kent," said Bruce, rising. "Let's get the guy." She got to her feet as well and he found himself once again confronted by her scanty yellow bathrobe. "If you don't think it will kill you to get dressed."

* * *

**Next Chapter**: Superwoman vs. DevilDog


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

Superwoman supposed Batman's invitation to join her in the hunt for DevilDog was his way of apologizing for the nasty things he said to her on the night she'd caught Salvatore Slipp. The personal apology he'd promised Lian had not materialized, but this had not bothered Martha. The weeks since that time had been busy for her and she supposed they had been for Bruce as well. Alfred had implied as much when he'd lured her to brunch the previous Sunday by promising to whip up his sumptuous strawberry pancakes. She'd thought the invitation curious and accepted only after Alfred promised that Bruce would be sleeping and therefore unaware of her presence in his kitchen. Martha found the old man delightful and believed it unlikely that Bruce would use him to spy on her, since her life was essentially an open book, at least to anyone who was already aware of her special family secret.

More likely, she thought, as she glided over Gotham, Batman's decision to include her in this little escapade had more to do with her previous experience fighting Tuksin, and with the relevation that DevilDog could fly. You fight a flyer with a flyer. Batman's little glider gadgets would be no match, and the idea of going after Tuksin in a plane was just silly.

She was glad to be a part of the search at any rate. Tuksin was nice to look at while you were arresting him. It was a shared attaction, except that DevilDog was hot for the hologram, nearly impossible to discern from a real woman since Midori's modifications. Tuksin was not unique in his lust for the voluptuous blonde illusion, but it made it easier for Martha to punch him.

Most of her encounters with the Thai assassin had been in Asia and Austrailia. She did not know where he might be holed up here in Gotham. She wasn't even sure he'd stick around.

Not that he'd quit before finishing the job. Tuksin was tenacious, as well as greedy. He lived well off his bounty, though Superwoman knew he'd also given millions to underfunded (and unquestioning) hospitals and orphanages in his home country. He also cared deeply about his reputation. Oh and his team of researchers were definitely still in trouble.

But Tuksin wasn't stupid and he _was_ patient. Superwoman could see him flying a few states away, lying low for a few days or weeks, then striking when everyone's guard was down. She had relayed as much to Lakeeta Reardon, who had assigned a task force to protect the scientists. Oh's team had not taken well to this news, as the group was scheduled to return tomorrow to the University of Minnesota, where their lab was based, and where they had every intention of continuing their research.

Oh had recovered from the shock and now shared his wife's anger, Reardon reported. Martha was sure speeches full of righteous indignation were being prepared and she wondered if her brother would be covering the press conference for _The Daily Planet._

She and Batman spent most of the night seaching for DevilDog, but, as she suspected, he was long gone. None of her U.S.-based informants knew anything about Tuksin, though she did learn, to her amusement, that he apparently shared his nom de crime with a commercially produced cupcake. Boy, would that piss him off.

Martha returned to her apartment about an hour before she needed to be at work, longing for a hot shower and a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. Batman had agreed to mobilize the League in order to protect the scientists and track down DevilDog. A meeting had been scheduled for that evening.

She ducked her head into Lian's room and noted that the bed was still made. It wasn't unusual for Lian to stay away all night – or several nights for that matter. Still, Martha was troubled.

* * *

Grendel was alone on the Watchtower when Superwoman squeezed through an airlock and shook her hair back into place. She sucked in a few mouthfuls of clean, freshly processed air into her breathing became normal. Gren pretended not to watch as she struggled for breath. He knew she regarded her natural limitations as weaknesses and that she hated to expose them.

"Where's your hetro lifemate?" He asked caustically. It was rare for Superwoman to report aboard without Quiver.

She shugged and deactivated the hologram. "Taking the _Jav_, I guess. With everybody else." She walked into the kitchen and returned with a can of Dr. Pepper. Gren had been listening to an oldies station on the radio. She listened for a few moments, then tossed back her head and sang, "_I smell sex in the candle-lit air…. Who's that sitting in my chair…._

Gren shook his head. "Jesus, Martha, will you ever get a lyric right?" He drew in an exasperated breath, then enunciated, "I. Smell Sex. _And Candy_. In the Air."

She wrinkled her nose. "That doesn't make sense. You can't smell candy. Unless it's chocolate," she added.

"The name of the song is _Sex and Candy_. He was about to make her a half-sincere offer involving both components of the tune when he heard the _Javelin-11 _pull into the docking bay. Gren walked into the control room and flicked a few buttons. In seconds, the bay had decompressed and his teammates – all of them – were filing into the conference room.

* * *

Keeping the scientists on Oh's team safe for an undetermined amount of time would be the League's biggest challenge, Martha explained to the group after Batman had filled them in on DevilDog's latest caper. "Tuksin, I can handle."

Roy said naughtily, "And we all know how you'd like to handle him, Martha."

Lian laughed. "Her and me, both. The man's a babe."

"A bad babe," corrected Martha. Her dark eyes glittered wickedly.

"The best kind," her roommate countered.

Batman, through gritted teeth, said, "Could we get back to the matter at hand?"

"Anyway, he likes Superwoman," said Martha, responding to Roy as if Batman had not spoken. "Not me. And she doesn't even come naked."

"I can make her naked," said Midori innocently. She had been oblivious to the innuendo implicit in the conversation and was relieved when talked turned to a technical concern. "I can fix the projector so you have a full range of clothes for Superwoman." Meera and Wally snickered. Realizing she was missing something, Midori shrank back into her chair. Roy patted her hand.

"It's OK," he whispered.

"Besides," added Martha. "Unlike some members of this team, I don't sleep with people I'm supposed to be arresting." She managed to capture both Roy and Batman in one sidelong glance.

"Thank you," said Roy, who had taken no offense. "For mentioning something that happened three decades ago and resulted in the conception of your best friend." Lian grinned and outstretched both arms in a "here I am" gesture. Everyone except Batman laughed.

He was livid. It was bad enough that Eclipso had revealed his identity to the group 14 years ago. Batman had never gotten used to that egregious violation of his privacy and security. It was even worse that the current League roster was so full of close friends and family members that keeping things strictly professional was almost impossible. But some lines had to be drawn and Martha Kent had just crossed a big one. His failed romantic relationships – if you could even call them that – were a source of deep pain to him and, in the cases of Talia Al-Ghul and Selina Kyle, they were a source of shame as well. Martha's casual, unprovoked reference to these profoundly intimate disappointments in front of the entire Justice League – even if she hadn't mentioned any names – was unforgivable.

How she knew anything about his personal relationships was beyond him. It had been more than ten years since he realized Batman's mission was incompatible with a private life of any kind. To continue to hope that he would find real love, either as Batman or as the playboy Bruce Wayne, was to believe in a pathetic delusion, one that drained time and focus from his quest. Having recognized this bleak truth, he had never allowed himself to think about a woman again. It hurt for a while, but all wounds, even the emotional ones, scar over and you get used to them. Not long thereafter, gossip columnists noted that Bruce Wayne had abandoned his womanizing ways and was becoming almost a recluse.

He bit back a retort about Martha's dalliance at the Sorbonne: Sleeping with a professor was inarguably less of an ethical breech than repeated liaisons with a criminal. Or, in his case, two criminals. Given the chance, he was sure Martha would point this out, which would make an intolerable indiscretion worse. He wanted the subject terminated.

"Let's get on with this," he snarled. Meera gave him a quick, odd glance, but no one else seemed to sense his change in mood. It was just Batman as usual, disparaging all social pleasantries.

* * *

Midori was delighted to draw the assignment of monitoring the cloning lab in Minneapolis. On her home world, cloning was a matter of everyday science – school children learned to do it as a basic lab skill. Watching the evolution of an entire field of science intrigued her from a historical perspective – so much so that Roy felt the need to warn her not to offer the scientists any tips.

"We're there to protect them, not to alter the course of scientific history," he advised. She earnestly agreed and went to work devising a series of force fields she hoped would protect the scientists in their lab, and at the hotel that had been secured for the researchers and their families.

Flash, who was nursing a slightly sprained ankle, would alternate with Meera in watching the enclave at the Twin Cities Travel Lodge, just outside city limits. Arsenal and Quiver would float between both positions, leaving Batman, Green Lantern and Superwoman to surreptitiously track the bus that brought Oh's team to work and back each day. During this twice-daily trek, the researchers would appear most vulnerable. If all went according to plan, that's when DevilDog would attack.

It was a week of dead boredom for the full-time superheroes and one of discomfort and exhaustion for Meera and Superwoman. Arsenal had arranged for the busload of scientists to be transported earlier than Martha was expected to start her shift at Arkham, and being devoted researchers, they didn't mind honoring Roy's request that they work late hours. This made it easier for Superwoman to rejoin them after Martha Kent was reasonably expected to pack it in for the day. Unfortunately, no one at Arkham worked regular hours. Twice, she had trouble getting away.

Meera was openly a member of the Justice League, but she did have a patient load she was unwilling to abandon. This left her covering the night shift at the hotel, which was fine with Wally. He preferred evenings with his wife and teen-aged son in Central City to a room full of nervous scientists and their equally skittish wives.

Meera was sitting in the dark hotel lobby, closed off to the public and locked for the duration of the threat against the cloning team, when a long shadow near the manager's office made her jump.

"Me," Batman said. He opened a bottle of water and sat down on the coach across from her. "Thought you could sense people's presence."

She nodded. "I've filtered out yours, though. Everyone's in the League." She was searching for a predator's thoughts, not a protector's. "You didn't go back to Gotham."

He shook his head. "DevilDog could hit anytime." It wasn't the only reason. Meera knew that Batman had returned to Gotham several times – when he could catch a ride with the Green Lantern. He'd declined two offers to make the same trip with Superwoman.

Meera wondered if she should tell Batman that Martha had not meant to upset him. In general, Meera was able to shield herself from people's everyday thoughts and feelings. She was especially vigilant in respecting the privacy of her friends and teammates. But the force of Batman's emotions had blasted clear acoss the conference table, startling her in their intensity. His reaction seemed dramatically out of proportion with Martha's teasing remark, which Meera was sure had been aimed predominantly at Roy, who was used to being ragged about his love life. Martha had not meant whatever Batman had thought she meant. Meera knew her friend would not hurt a soul on purpose. Martha would have been mortified to have caused such offense, even to Batman, who had not been particularly nice to her. She would have rushed to apologize, something that in this case Meera firmly believed would have made things worse. An apology at that time would not have moderated Batman's rage – it would have magnified it.

Enough time had passed that Meera felt she might bright up the subject without causing a resurgence of that anger, but she couldn't be sure without prying into his thoughts, something she would never do. This left her in a quandry. There was more at play than her natural desire to defend her friend. Meera was concerned about how ongoing discord between Superwoman and Batman might affect the Justice League. No one else seemed to share her apprehension. Arsenal and Flash seemed to consider the squabbles amusing. Batman had drained most of the water in a single gulp. He capped the plastic bottle and without appearing to look, let along take aim, flung it towards a small recycling bin fifteen feet behind him. It was a perfect shot.

"Basket," Meera said. It was hard to know what to say to him. Even sitting there, on a cheap hotel couch, he was intimidating.

Batman nodded in the direction of the guest rooms. "How's everyone holding up here?"

"OK," said Meera. "Not so much scared anymore as tired and irritable. Sick of pizza and Chinese food," she added, referring to herself as much as the researchers and their families.

"He's going to strike soon," Batman said. "His employers won't want Oh's group to make too much progress."

"Superwoman said the same thing," Meera said. She took a deep breath and blurted, "She didn't mean to upset you."

Batman looked up sharply and Meera leapt to her feet. "I have to go to the bathroom," she added. She bolted to a restroom she didn't have to use, hoping that when she returned to the lobby, the couch would be empty.

* * *

DevilDog made his move six hours later, just as the bus crossed into the Minneapolis City Limits. Superwoman, flying behind a cover of clouds, noticed immediately when two of the bus tires seemed to crumple, causing the vehicle to pitch precariously to the left.

"Knives to the tires!" she shouted. She knew Meera, still at the hotel, would hear her thoughts and send reinforcements. Meanwhile, she searched the skies for Tuksin. He had to be close to have aimed that well.

A third knife swished through the air and crashed through one of the small side windows of the bus. Superwoman bolted for the bus, frustrated that she'd have to lose her cover in order to check on the passengers' safety. She hoped DevilDog wouldn't run.

Everyone was OK, but Tuksin had seen her. Running didn't seem to be on his To-Do list; Superwoman could tell that he wanted a rematch, despite his three previous defeats at her hands. Some people never learned, she thought. It seemed to be a chronic condition in criminals.

"Long time, Babe," he called out in what Martha considered a gloriously sexy Thai accent.

"Hey, cupcake," she replied, accelerating into a torpedo-like head-butt to his solar plexus. She must have been a little off, as he was winded afterwards, but still able to breathe.

"Well, wham-bam," he said. "Missed you, too." His spinning side kick sent her into a billboard.

_Oh, man_, she thought. It felt good to mix it up like this, with someone you weren't likely to injure permanently. It was a shame Tuksin was a bad guy. He'd make a great sparring partner.

DevilDog followed her through the billboard, but he failed to look before moving through the hole. He flew into a strong left cross. This was why Tuksin had lost their three previous battles, Superwoman thought as she watched him blink away the pain. Too impulsive.

He recovered and seized her, pulling her into a backflip that sent them both over the top of the billboard. As she felt DevilDog tighten a forearm around her neck, Superwoman looked down and was relieved to see the Green Lantern on the ground projecting a force field around the crippled bus.

* * *

Batman pulled up moments later on the most gorgeous black motorcycle Gren had ever seen. They watched together as Martha threw DevilDog into a cluster of electrical wires.

"Should we help her?" Batman asked.

"Nah," said Gren, checking to see that his force field was still protecting the frantic scientists. "This is nothin'. At the sound of a loud, reverberating clang, he directed his focus back to the sky. DevilDog was still twisted up in electical cables and Superwoman was looking around curiously for whoever had just thrown a stop sign at her head. The follow-up pitch, coming from somewhere on the ground, was a bus stop bench that bounced off of Superwoman's shoulders just as DevilDog tackled her around the waist.

Gren pushed his ring tight against the bottom of his finger as though making sure it was secure and the green bubble disappeared from around the bus. "_Now_ we help her," he said, springing into the air.

It didn't take Gren long to locate DevilDog's back-up. He retraced the trajectory of a trash dumpster that had suddenly set sail after Superwoman and spotted a tall, raven-haired woman standing behind a sheltered bus stop. She was dressed similarly to DevilDog and appeared to be hurtling objects into the air without touching them.

Gren reported the discovery of DevilDog's telekinetic accomplice to Batman through Meera and learned that Arsenal was on his way to join them. Then he swooped down to confront the new bad girl.

"So, you the girlfriend?" he shouted as a huge green hand ballooned out of his ring and snatched the dumpster seconds before it hit the swirling human pretzel that was Superwoman and DevilDog. "Nearly hit your guy. You're supposed to wait 'til they separate."

She turned a ferocious face toward him and roared at him in what he supposed was Thai. Then she followed up her incomprehensible retort with a rather large tree.

Gren parried the tree easily with the same green hand, but informed Arsenal through Meera that he wanted to switch positions with Batman. She might be strong enough to lift the bus, which he assumed was still where he'd left it. It wasn't safe to evacuate the vehicle yet, with DevilDog loose and determined to kill Oh's team. Gren had to get it out of there, but he didn't want to leave Superwoman without back-up.

Batman had circled around the bus shelter. The woman couldn't see him, but the Green Lantern could. Gren allowed his energy construct, still shaped like a hand, to double in size, then he attempted to wrap its green fingers around the telekinetic. To his dismay, the woman seemed to have activated an invisible barrier of her own – he couldn't get within a foot of her.

_Go,_ Meera told him. _Batman says he has her. And Flash and Arsenal are seconds away._

Gren scowled at the telekenetic's smug expression as he abandoned the battle. Apparently, she thought she'd won the round. Seconds later, just before he lost sight of her, his chagrin turned to pleasure as a batarang smacked her in the back of the head.

It took him five minutes to return the research team to the hotel and help Meera reactivate the force field surrounding the it. He hoped the presence of DevilDog's female companion would not compromise the integrity of Midori's barrier. Sometimes people who could make force fields, could break them.

Almost immediately, he found himself with a more pressing concern, in the form of a huge yellow lightning bolt that rocked the ground inches away from his right foot. Instinctively, he raised his right fist and a green shield spread across half the sky. A second golden bolt penetrated the barrier easily, as Gren knew it would. The Lantern's Light didn't work against yellow.

He jerked himself out of the path of the missile, but it still managed to graze him, slashing his favorite jacket and burning a small patch of skin under his ribs. Gren said a very bad word and headed back into the sky.

* * *

"Wow, Tuk," Superwoman gasped as she smashed an elbow into DevilDog's temple. "You brought friends. I didn't know you _had_ friends."

He shoved a heel into her ribs, then followed up with a spinning backfist to her nose. The hit caused her to bleed profusely, though the hologram concealed the mess. She threw her entire hip into a sidekick aimed at his shin and was gratified to hear his cry of pain.

"Couldn't wait for you forever," he panted, gesturing at the woman below. "But don't worry. I've got energy enough to take you both on."

Superwoman laughed derisively. "The energy maybe. But not the skill." She brought an axe kick down on his collarbone. He cursed in Thai and grabbed the spot with one hand. She went in for the kill, but he'd been faking. As soon as she was in grappling range, he pulled her into another headlock.

* * *

The batarang had nearly knocked out DevilDog's girlfriend, but she managed to rouse herself enough to fling a manhole cover at Batman before he came close enough to grab her. Batman had dodged significantly more deadly projectiles during his long career and ducked this one effortlessly. The telekenetic had good follow-up though – he barely escaped the bicycle – still bearing its screaming rider – that she threw at him next.

Flash arrived just in time to grab the man as his bike fell away. Then he barreled into the woman, knocking her down and tying her up before Batman could pick himself up.

"She likes that," hollered a hoarse voice from above their heads. DevilDog had apparently noticed the capture of his companion and was diving down to rescue her. Unfortunately for him, his downward plunge added momentum to the force of the impact when Superwoman slammed him into the ground.

There was a sickening crunch, a curtain of dust and then horrible silence as Flash, Batman and the telekinetic stared at the blue, red and white pile of limbs.

"Wow," whispered Flash. The bluer parts of the pile moved, and then Superwoman slowly, rather brokenly, rose to her feet and shook herself out.

"Oh…" she whispered through lips Batman could tell were swollen under the pristine hologram.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Oh…" Superwoman gasped again. "For. Four." Her laugh sounded painful. "There goes the million dollar baby."

Batman stared at her with such intensity that it seemed as if his gaze had penetrated the hologram. Then he said, "You'd better get him to SuperMax before he wakes up."

Flash hauled up DevilDog's bound partner and said, "I'll follow along after you. I think they've got a cell for this one, too."

His teammates and their captives were gone before Batman could readjust his cape. "Meera," he said aloud. "Where the hell are Green Lantern and the Harpers?"

* * *

Meera had seen the attack on Gren and immediately re-directed Quiver and Arsenal to the hotel. She couldn't see much from inside the lobby, where she was trying to calm six hysterical scientists and their families as well as manage communication between her teammates.

_Green Lantern, what does he look like__? What are his powers?_ She opened a channel to Arsenal and Batman so they could hear Gren's reponse.

"White guy. Throws lightning bolts," he screamed, dodging one. "_Yellow_ lightning bolts."

_Bad aim though_, Arsenal responded through Meera. _Hold on, Gren._

Meera could see Roy positioning himself behind a tree just outside the hotel. He was aiming a cross-bow into the air. _Tell Gren to fly straight up_, he told her.

_He hears you_. The Lantern was already hurtling upward.

* * *

Arsenal could see the guy floating jerkily above the hotel. There was a cushion of smoke and sparks beneath him, as though he was elevating himself through some sort of electrical energy cloud. Unlike DevilDog and his girlfriend, this guy wore black jeans and a leather jacket. He looked like an extra in a low-end motorcycle movie.

As Gren rocketed straight past his attacker, distracting him, Arsenal let lose a "joy buzzer." He was interested in seeing how the arrow might interact with someone who manipulated electricity.

Not perfectly, he noted. The arrow clearly hurt the guy where it penetrated both his expensive jacket and his bicep, but the shock effect was lost on him. No problem. Arsenal reloaded, squinted through the crossbow sight and reconsidered laser surgery. This arrow didn't require precision, though. He fired and a moment later, DevilDog's new accomplice was lying unconscous on the hotel walkway, wrapped in what could best be described as a giant white trash bag.

"So much for the Clone Wars," Arsenal said, as a disgruntled Gren landed beside him.

"Real funny," the Green Lantern muttered.

* * *

"So Lightning Guy was a first-timer?" asked Flash as Quiver guided the _Jav _toward the Watchtower. Grendel and Meera were still in Minneapolis, debriefing the police.

"Total amateur," said Roy. He stretched his arms behind his head and carefully studied Superwoman, who was curled up in the back of the shuttle, sleeping. Her forehead was pressed against the bulkhead and she seemed to be breathing a little raggedly. Roy unstrapped himself and glided toward her through the zero-gee compartment. He stretched a hand toward her right hip.

"They can be the most dang –" Batman was saying.

"Jesus!" Wally said. Midori gasped. Both of them were staring towards the rear seat in the plane.

Martha Kent's upper body was mottled with livid purple bruises. Her nose looked broken. Her lower lip was split, she had a cut under her left cheek and there was an apron of dried blood running down the front of her shirt and jeans. There were ugly green and yellow marks around her throat, where DevilDog had choked her.

Batman's stoic façade was briefly eclipsed by an expression of pure shock. _My God_, he thought. He had rarely seen Clark with as much as a scratch.

Midori whispered, "Does she always…."

Roy touched the tiny projector again and the small, battered woman was swallowed up by her unblemished doppelganger.

"She always fights her heart out," Roy said softly. He buckled himself back into his seat and grinned crookedly at Midori. "She'll be OK."

"She heals fast," Lian agreed as she steered the shuttle into the Watchtower's primary hangar. "Give her an hour – she'll be back to normal."

Roy let Superwoman sleep on the shuttle during the debriefing. She didn't wake up until they'd landed back on Earth. Lian's prediction of a quick recovery had been on the mark: At Arsenal's insistence, Martha flicked off the hologram long enough to reveal that fading yellow bruises had replaced her swollen purple ones. Most of her cuts had disappeared and her nose and lip were healing. Batman offered her a ride to Gotham on his jet, but it was an unusually fine December day and she decided to fly back alfresco.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _Family and Friends_

* * *


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

Clark Kent noticed the empty place setting and walked into the kitchen to ask his wife which of their children was skipping Sunday dinner. His look of disappointment reminded Lois of how she'd felt, early in their marriage, when Superman's duties constantly separated Clark from his personal life.

"She's standing us up, your daughter," Lois said, handing him a casserole dish filled with steamed vegetables. He tucked the dish in an elbow and reached for a serving spoon. "Catching up on work, she says."

Clark leaned against the frame of the kitchen door and studied her. "She says?"

"Well, she was using her lying voice, the one that says, 'I just got the crap beaten out of me and I don't want you to see the bruises,'" Lois said. "Which sounds consistent with what we heard about that big brawl in Minneapolis."

He pushed back against the door, set the vegetables in the middle of the table and returned to his wife. "Think I should go check on her?"

She regarded him with a mix of affection and exasperation. " 'I. Don't. Want. You. To. See. The. Bruises,'" she repeated. Clark nodded reluctantly.

"We'll see her next week for Christmas," Lois said reassuringly. "She's working New Year's, though."

"And Clay is working on Christmas and free on New Year's," said Clark. Lois could tell he was about to launch into another rant about the dissolution of the sacred family dinner when he froze, listening intently to someone or something Lois knew had just reduced the number of diners in the Kent home that evening to two.

"I'll save you a platter," she said automatically. But he had already kissed her on the forehead and vanished.

Lois smiled at the lingering feel of his lips on her forehead. This had been her life for decades now, and she was used to it. She wouldn't have traded a single day of her marriage for a full-time husband who wasn't Clark. She did wish he had mentioned where he was headed. Without hesitating to realize she was consigning herself to dinner alone, she picked up her cell phone and asked her son to switch on the Planet's multi-state police radio to see if he could pick up any activity concerning Superman. It might make a good story.

* * *

Non-alcoholic beer just didn't cut it for Wally and that was all Roy had in his fridge. Wally knew this was because his friend had never had the real thing, having given up all potentially addictive substances before he'd reached drinking age. A heroin addiction in your mid-teens, however quickly kicked, did not make you eager to experiment with other mind-altering substances, even those as socially acceptable as a Heineken, Roy once explained. Wally understood. He just wished Roy wasn't so eager to thrust a fake beer in his hand in order to prove he could be hospitable to a friend who liked an occasional brew.

He slouched back on the soft brown microfiber couch and stared through the wide living room picture window into the vast desert that was Roy's backyard. You could see actual cacti out there – the kind you saw in Road Runner cartoons. Wally loved visiting Roy's secluded Colorado home – it was beyond peaceful. The southwestern-style rancher was modestly furnished with Native American art and illuminated with muted energy-saving bulbs that effectively simulated candlelight.

He and Linda had spent New Year's Eve here a few weeks ago and it had been a badly needed break. Wally understood how Roy's marriages had crumbled. Making a relationship work when you were a superhero – or married to one – was infinitely more demanding than taking part in a lifelong struggle to keep the world safe. Wally had been married for more than 20 years and it had never ceased to feel like work. That was why he was here now – the peaceful getaway he and Linda had enjoyed was now his refuge from a tension at home he felt certain was about to break loose in a big way.

Roy returned from the kitchen, frosty bottles of the dreaded faux beer in his hand. Wally, whose lack of tact this week had already offended Linda, forced a smile and raised the bottle in a salute to his friend.

"Go home. Apologize. And take her to bed," Roy suggested in the face of his friend's brooding silence.

Wally sipped the vile liquid. "Yeah. Only that doesn't work so much anymore." He grinned sheepishly at Roy. "I've used up all my quotient of 'charming.' "

Roy stared at his knees for a moment. "I'll always think you're charming," he deadpanned.

They drank together in peaceful silence for a while. Then Roy said, "The team's coming together pretty well, I think."

"You say this every time I see you," said Wally. "And I always agree. And," he added, "I always wonder what's bothering you when you say it."

Roy laughed self-consciously and admitted, "I worry. Gren is gunning for my job and maybe I'm afraid people will think I've had it too long. And maybe I have." He took a deep breath and added, "I'm worried about Lian. You know. The way she lives. And whether we should have so much family in the League." Wally shifted uncomfortably. "And I just… I want…," Roy continued.

"A guarantee that no one else is going to die?" Wally asked. Roy laughed again, more bitterly this time.

"Yes, please," he said.

Wally couldn't help him with that one. He had lost his cherished uncle and predecessor as Flash when he was barely out of his teens. Barry Allen had died alone while saving the Earth and several parallel worlds besides. In this business, death was a given. Wally just hoped that when his turn came, there would be someone there to say goodbye.

"You've been leader this long because everyone wants you in charge," he said. "You're the first one who's ever committed to running the League full-time. Grendel? Damn, Roy. No one would follow him onto a roller-coaster ride.

"As for Lian," he continued, "She'll be OK." He sucked down half the bottle of fake beer and regretted it immediately.

"Thanks," said Roy quietly. A moment later, he added, "Oh. Meera thinks the Dysfunctional Duo is a problem." He sounded somewhat amused.

"You mean the bitch-fest between Batman and Superwoman?" asked Wally. "That's the best part of our meetings."

"I don't think it's serious, either," said Roy.

Wally gestured towards the window. A coyote had padded across the yard and was nosing a stone bird bath Roy had put up when Lian was in first grade. They watched the creature in quiet enjoyment until he finally slouched away.

"Midori still gets jumpy around Batman," Roy commented, studiously searching the wilderness beyond his window. "Wish I could get her to loosen up a bit."

Wally gave him a knowing glance.

"I'm just helping her acclimate," said Roy firmly.

"I'll bet you are," Wally replied.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _Arkham prepares for its most dreaded alumnus - and Batman learns that it's better to call first._

* * *


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

Martha and Lucy DiTomasa slipped quietly around the darkened corridor on Arkham's infamous third floor. Although the entire institution was, by definition, high security, this particular wing was designed to hold the most terrifying inmates, the ones who seemed superhumanly evil – and nearly impossible to confine. Each cell on the wing was custom made for the prisoner it would hold. There were some features common to each of the small rooms: They were armed with invisible cameras and with concealed, short-range weapons that most of the staff was not supposed to know about. Each cell could be sealed and pumped full of sedating gas in less than thirty seconds. Prisoners were fed through an electronic wall system that also handled hygiene issues. Human guards were not required to come within 100 feet of these inmates – and most stayed considerably farther away whenever possible. First-year fellows were not allowed on the floor unless accompanied by an attending psychiatrist.

Consigning a patient to the third floor was an acknowledgement that he was not only a hopeless case, but that it wasn't worth treating him at all, even for the sake of research. An inmate who was assigned there had probably already killed an Arkham psychiatrist or two and would be unlikely to find a willing therapist among the surviving staff. In the 15 years since the wing was established, only a handful of patients had been assigned there. Martha knew of two – Bane and the Joker.

Lucy nudged Martha and pointed to a cell on the right hand side of the corridor. "Is that it?" she whispered. Lucy was one of the few first-year fellows besides Martha who was enjoying her training at Arkham. Most of their colleagues alternated between depression and terror; three new residents had already left – one of them on a stretcher.

"I think so," Martha replied quietly, her eyes combing the outside of a cell that looked like it had recently undergone significant renovation. "Hope it's as airtight as it looks."

"I wonder if he looks like – you know, the photos," Lucy whispered.

"I heard he does," Martha said. "Only he's bigger."

Lucy shuddered involuntarily. "Ever wonder why the Batman's never killed him?"

Martha shook her head. "The man doesn't kill," she said. "Maim – maybe a little. Kill? Not so much."

"That's a good thing, right?" said Lucy doubtfully.

"Hope so," Martha replied. "Ready or not, though – here comes the Joker." She looked at her watch. "We'd better go. I gotta get to Midvale."

The women crept quietly down the forbidden corridor. "What kind of conference is it?" Lucy asked.

Martha ducked her head around a corner to make sure they would not be seen. "Neurosurgery."

"You're driving all the way to Midvale to pick up a few tips on brain surgery?"

"To be honest," said Martha, "I'm driving to Midvale to pick up a brain surgeon."

* * *

Batman rarely cursed, but he felt it was warranted under the present circumstances. Arkham's entire computer system had shut down, preventing him from hacking into files that detailed the schematics of the Joker's new high-security cell. In less than two days, Batman was slated to assist with the transfer of the clown-faced psychopath from Gotham General, where he lay in an induced coma. In the meantime, the dark knight intended to pore over every detail in the cell design before personally inspecting it prior to the actual move.

He had spent the last few hours attempting to access the system, but it seemed to have crashed. The antiquated network had been screaming for an upgrade – it generally ran at an achingly slow pace and recently Batman found it locking up constantly. He had found himself so frustrated with the system that he'd actually checked to see if Arkham had admitted any technopaths lately, but all the psychos currently residing there were low-tech types.

Idly, he wondered if Martha Kent had taken a peek at the cell. First-years were banned from the floor, so he was sure she'd snuck up there. Certain things you could count on.

Whether she had learned anything of value was a different story. Martha was neither an architect nor an engineer and he wasn't in the mood to drive halfway across town in the middle of the night for a detailed description of the cell door. It did occur to him that she might be convinced to slip out the actual blueprints tomorrow for long enough for him to take a few pictures. She seemed to be decent at acquiring such things.

Batman's eyes flicked to the clock in the corner of his computer monitor. It was almost one o'clock. If she was home and awake, he might have to be pleasant in order to gain her cooperation, which meant he'd be grinding off another layer of tooth enamel. He found it increasingly difficult to be patient with someone so persistently cheerful.

He'd only had to go back to her apartment once since the League had nailed DevilDog six or seven weeks ago, when Martha had again brought home a file before entering it into the Arkham database. She had not minded the unannounced visit and, other than asking about Alfred, she had kept the conversation professional. Batman wished she could manage to do the same at Justice League meetings, where he found himself increasingly at odds with her opinions and her attitude.

He rubbed a hand over his weary face and reached for his mask. Might as well get this over with. If he was lucky, she'd have swiped the files on Joker for pleasure reading. She wouldn't hand them over, but she might let him sit and read them for a while.

* * *

Batman had seen the light on in Martha's bedroom from the street, so he hadn't expected her to take so long to answer the bell. It wasn't until he'd jabbed at the buzzer a third time that he finally heard footsteps. He told himself he should have shown up as Bruce Wayne. He felt antsy waiting here like this – Batman didn't stand in apartment hallways ringing doorbells.

Martha cracked the door enough for her head to rest between the frame and the edge of the door. She was clutching the yellow bathrobe near the middle of her chest and seemed slightly out of breath.

"Hey," she said. He immediately stepped forward, expecting to be let in, but Martha did not open the door. Batman glanced at her and stopped dead, realizing instantly that her tousled hair and glassy eyes were not the result of having been roused from a deep sleep. Her voice was thick and low and he could smell the fading remnants of a man's cologne on her glistening skin.

"I'm sorry," Martha whispered. "I can't let you –"

"Sorry," he said, feeling unbelievably stupid. He backed into the hallway. "I should have… I'm… sorry."

A conflicted look traversed her face. "Is it imp—"

"No."

She started to close the door. Batman heard a heavier pair of footsteps coming from inside the apartment. A man's voice asked, "What ees thees? Your trick or treat?" His accent was distinctly French.

"No," Batman heard Martha say. "Just someone for Lian."

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _Batman brings the Joker home_.

* * *


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

Bruce Wayne did not usually regard the sweet scent of Alfred's pancakes as an unpleasant omen, but as he shambled through the dining room, scratching at a stubbly cheek, he sensed that something suspicious was transpiring on the other side of his kitchen door.

He had barely slept. When he'd gotten home sometime after 2 AM, he'd taken another crack at the Arkham database and found it had finally been repaired. He quickly downloaded the schematics for Joker's cell to his own computer – he didn't want to risk losing the information to another crash. What he saw on the blueprints did nothing to improve his dismal mood.

There were at least three potential faults in the security technology and one in the cell structure itself. He'd combed over the drawings for three hours, taking meticulous notes he hoped would expedite the crucial repairs. Batman would not participate in Joker's transfer if Persky didn't agree to them. He'd called the Arkham director at dawn to insist that the necessary subcontractors return to the asylum immediately. Persky had mumbled something about unions and after delivering a tersely-worded ultimatum, Batman had hung up on him.

And while he knew it was irrational, Bruce felt there was some blame to be directed at Martha Kent. He knew she'd had no reason to expect him to barge into her apartment in the middle of the night, but he still begrudged her obviously enthusiastic indulgence in a personal life. This was something he had always resented in her father: Superman had done an immeasurable amount of good, but every crime fighter in the world was still swimming against the tide. How much more could Superman have achieved if he had not selfishly insisted on holding down a demanding job and raising a family? What made his daughter think she could accomplish anywhere near as much with half the powers and a grueling psychiatric fellowship? No one in that family had a clear sense of priorities, Bruce thought. At least Clark wasn't going around screwing Frenchmen.

Bruce had made the mistake of voicing some of these grievances to Alfred, hoping the news of Martha's less than virginal behavior might dampen the old man's fascination with her.

"How dare she not be exactly as you have stereotyped her," the butler had replied dryly.

As Bruce pressed his palm flat against the kitchen door, he realized what was bothering him: Alfred didn't eat pancakes anymore; his cholesterol had gotten a bit high, and he was trying to lower it without resorting to drugs. It was an aberration for Bruce to be up at this time, so who was Alfred cooking for?

Damn it.

He shoved at the door and it swung open. Martha Kent stood at the breakfast bar, filling two teacups with boiling water. Alfred stood beside her artistically topping a stack of pancakes with whipped cream and fresh strawberries.

"Worked up an appetite, have you?" Bruce asked.

Alfred shot him a reproachful look. Martha, startled by the sudden intrusion, smiled gamely and said, "Hi. I just stopped by to see if there was still something you needed."

"No," said Bruce coldly.

"Are you su –"

"Do you know what 'no' means?"

Her smile vanished. "OK," she said, bewildered by the force of his animosity. "I just dropped Philippe off at the airport and wanted to see if…." She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Alfred. I'd better go."

"Please," Alfred said. "You must have your breakfast." In one practiced motion, he glided around the breakfast bar, placed the pancakes on the kitchen table, pulled out a chair and looked at her imploringly.

Martha's eyes moved uncertainly from the pancakes to Bruce.

"Alfred went to a lot of trouble," he said, not bothering to disguise the sullenness in his voice. "You should eat."

She continued to look at him and he was suddenly aware that he was wearing only a thin pair of drawstring pajama bottoms and a faded gray t-shirt. He hadn't brushed his teeth and he knew his eyes were hollow and dark from lack of sleep. Without meaning to, he ran a hand through his rumpled hair, then turned on his heels and strode from the room.

Alfred followed him. As soon as the kitchen door swung closed, Bruce turned on the butler and demanded. "Are you seeing her behind my back?"

"Yes," the old man retorted. "It's true. There's another woman." Only Alfred could make him feel so ridiculous. It had been a legitimate question, he thought. Alfred knew Bruce disliked Martha Kent, yet the butler was treating her like royalty. And from the way they had been working together at the breakfast bar, Bruce could tell Martha had some familiarity with his kitchen.

"I don't want her here," he said.

To his horror, Alfred's eyes filled with angry tears. "I understand. Why should my desire for an occasional breakfast companion interfere with your adolescent grudge? How could it possibly matter if my final years are spent friendless and alone?"

Alfred had been the central human being in Bruce's life since he was an orphaned eight-year-old child and the thought of the old man's inevitable death – whether a day from now or a decade – filled Bruce with barely suppressed dread. He had never known Alfred to bring up his own mortality before. In fact, the butler had been offended by the mere suggestion that a man his age might want to take it a little easier.

Bruce held up his hands in immediate surrender. "No, it's OK. She can come over whenever she wants," he said quickly. "Whenever you want."

"Thank you," said Alfred, with quiet dignity.

* * *

Alfred did not return to the kitchen until he heard Bruce's footsteps on a distant staircase. By the time he rejoined his guest, Martha had finished half of the stack of pancakes. She examined his dry eyes and grinned.

"Way to play the 90-year-old man card," she said.

"One must use it judiciously," he said, and reached for his cup of tea.

* * *

Hospitals and prisons are hotbeds of gossip. Arkham Asylum, being a hybrid of both types of institutions, was constantly abuzz with rumors and idle talk, but Martha had never before witnessed it exchanged at such a fevered pitch. Word of the Joker's impending re-imprisonment had been brewing for weeks, and while the exact date of his return had been kept secret, staff and inmates alike had kept abreast of the intensified construction efforts on the third floor and everyone noticed when the work seemed to have been completed.

There had been hushed excitement when the hammering and soldering on the restricted wing fell silent, but eager expectation quickly grew into impatience and disappointment as life at the asylum plowed on as usual. Just as the latest gossip had the board of governors lacking enough faith in Persky to allow the prisoner transfer, subcontractors flooded back onto the third floor. Rumor commenced again, close to the truth this time, the upshot being that the original fitting out of the Joker's cell had been somehow flawed. The sounds of hammers and drills rang through the night, agitating the inmate population and annoying the staff for days. Few members of the staff were present when silence fell in the middle of a Wednesday night. Martha Kent was one of them. She was working in her office with an insomniac Harvey Dent when the builders' hammers stopped and the noise was replaced instantly by a silence so tense and electric that it made her shiver.

She looked up from her desk at the exact time Harvey caught a pen he'd idly flipping in the air.

"You think?" Martha asked as their eyes met across her desk.

Harvey shrugged. Unlike most of the occupants of Arkham, be they professional or patient, his dread of the Joker's arrival was not tempered by excitement. He was probably the only inmate alive who knew the insane clown personally and the memories did not sit well with him. Harvey had done some hideous things standing side-by-side with the Joker. Like Lucy DiTomasa, he had questioned the wisdom of allowing the bleached madman to live. Of course, Harvey had added off-handedly to Martha, he sometimes wondered why Batman hadn't put an end to Two-Face as well.

Martha reached for his pen and stuck it behind her ear. "I'd better take you back."

He nodded his eyes distant and troubled. As she reached for the door, he put a scarred hand on her arm and said, "Stay away from him."

Martha turned up her palms, a gesture of helplessness. "I'm not allowed near him, Harvey."

"He isn't me. He isn't Slipp. He's like no one you've ever met," said Harvey. "Follow the rules this time, Martha."

She squeezed his forearm reassuringly. "OK, Harve."

* * *

Martha had just left Harvey when she noticed a guard who had always been friendly. Hoping for a morsel of information, Martha waved him down. But when he approached her, he wasn't smiling. He was wearing black armor and carrying a big gun.

"You need to get back in your office," he said. "Now. We're in lockdown."

"He's here?" Martha asked, a duel surge of excitement and trepidation surging through her chest.

"Go to your office," the guard repeated, his voice a bit harsher this time. "And stay there."

Taken aback by his abruptness, Martha made a show of hurrying back to her office. As soon as the guard disappeared around a corridor, she stole through the roundabout route to the third floor that she and Lucy had discovered. She could hear the echo of approaching footsteps and voices and scanned the hallway quickly for a hiding place with good visibility. For good reason, though, the wing was built for transparency and Martha could find no place to conceal herself.

The voices were getting closer. One of them was Persky's. Abandoning her hopes of a front row view, Martha ducked around a corner and listened. It wasn't until she heard the smooth mechanical growl of the heavy pneumatic door that she dared a peek.

Two of Arkham's burliest guards had hauled an unconscious, hooded man to the front of the open cell door. His hands were bound behind his back and covered in thick, quilted mitts, like ultra-padded oven gloves. Similar coverings swallowed his feet to mid-calf. The guards were staring alertly into the cell, as if waiting for instructions. Behind them stood Persky, Lakeeta Reardon and four Gotham City police officers in riot gear.

Batman stepped out of the cell and indicated, with a jerk of his head, that the guards should drag in the Joker. They obeyed and he disappeared behind them. In seconds, the guards had re-joined the knot of onlookers in the corridor. Several minutes of tense silence ensued before Batman emerged from the chamber. The hood, hand and foot coverings were draped across his forearm. He looked at Persky, who immediately touched a button on a wall panel across from the cell. The door lumbered shut and Martha heard it seal with a hiss.

Batman tossed the restraints to Persky and said, "I'm going to stick around for a while."

"Appreciate it, Batman," the director replied. "Stay as long as you'd like." He hesitated.

"Go ahead," Batman said. He nodded at Reardon and added, "Good job. All of you."

Reardon returned his nod and motioned her officers away with a jerk of her head. Persky and the Arkham guards followed. Batman, his gloved arms folded across his brawny chest, stared intently at the cell door for several soundless minutes.

His gaze remained trained on the door as his voice broke the silence. "You really don't know what 'no' means, do you?"

Martha drew up beside him. She wrapped her arms around her slender shoulders and said, "No reason for me to be afraid of him, but… he spooks me."

A muffled giggle escaped from the heavy door, followed by another, stronger chortle. Martha shivered.

Batman's eyes continued to linger on the door. "Maybe you can buy him a pizza."

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _Frayed_

* * *


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

It would be misleading to say that weeks passed without incident at Arkham Asylum. In an institution full of determined psychopaths, every day is a trip to the combat zone. Three injuries to staff, including one that resulted in a legitimate claim for permanent disability, occurred before the first day of spring. Four fires were set – three of them by the same inmate – and there was a failed escape attempt. However, none of these episodes involved the Joker.

Eventually, the escalated sense of excitement and apprehension subsided and Arkham settled into its usual climate of low-grade paranoia. Martha Kent, who had been spending more time at work, ostensibly to keep up with her patient workload, knew better than to assume silence from the third floor meant that no trouble was coming from the Joker. Harvey had spent hours sharing his personal recollections the maniac clown with her and Martha believed that as long as the Joker was alive, relaxing her guard was not an option.

The additional time spent at Arkham did not bother her. She had no social life, other than visiting the occasional club with Lian and brunches with Alfred. She never expected to see Philippe again. His visit to Gotham had been sort of a post-goodbye, an unexpected consequence of his attending a surgical conference in Midvale. Philippe was good company in the ways she had needed him to be, but she had never been in love with him and she knew she had been a pleasant convenience for him. Completely devoted to his profession, and wary of the divorces that seemed to pile up around his colleagues, the handsome surgeon had long ago decided to simplify his personal life. He taught a course each year on the impact of precision surgery on neurological function and his classes were usually packed. Among his students each semester, there was always a bright, attractive woman who was willing to share his bed and he had become expert in identifying her quickly. Martha had known all of this when he'd asked her to dinner; Philippe's practice was common knowledge, as were his skills as s surgeon and as a lover. She had not considered the affair a breech of ethics: She was an A student. She did not need to sleep with anyone in order to receive a good grade.

After Dave, she had not looked at another man for years. Before Philippe, there had been two impetuous liaisons late in medical school and residency that she had instantly regretted. The quasi-relationship she'd had with her professor had been a step on the path back to romantic normalcy for Martha. But she had never fooled herself into thinking it was more than it was and she did not miss him.

Her unofficial overtime at Arkham, coupled with her nightly patrols, had not enhanced Martha's chances of developing a love life, but she was making greater progress with several of her patients - progress being defined as sessions in which said patients did not attempt once to try to kill her or in which they revealed something about themselves that shed light on the origins of their homicidal tendencies. Persky was pleased with her performance – he had expressed as much just days before a patient had bitten several chunks out of his upper arm and he'd been raced to the hospital.

She was in the middle of a progress report on Freaky Fred Shaeffer, whose MO included shaving every strand of hair from the bodies of his murdered victims, when she heard a tap at the window. She instinctively suspected Batman, but when she turned around, she saw Gren Gardner hovering outside of her second-story office.

The Green Lantern eased through the window quickly, announcing, "This must be killing you."

She snapped closed the window. "What?"

"Staying away from me for so long. Haven't seen you for weeks." Superman had been covering most of her Justice League duties. Gren's eyes combed through the office, presumably in search of food. He had a high metabolism.

"Yes, Gren. It's killing me. But I've re-examined my entire life and have come to the conclusion that nothing I could possibly have done could make me deserve being with someone like you," Martha replied.

Gren smiled slightly and nodded in admiration at her comeback. "How 'bout I take you out on a date?" Cutting off another caustic response, he added, "Right now. To Myanmar. A trio of bombs just went off; one of them collapsed a bridge. Your father is there, but we could use a doctor."

Martha jerked open the second drawer of her desk and pulled out a knapsack filled with medical supplies. "Let's go."

Superwoman and the Green Lantern left Arkham a few minutes past nine o'clock on an unusually warm April evening. Seven hours later, forty armed thugs led by a psychotic technopath named Fray stormed the asylum to free the Joker.

* * *

Batman's instinct that a technopath had been interfering with the information systems at Arkham had not been wrong. His mistake was in thinking that the interloper had been confined within the walls of the institution itself. Sean Fray had met the Joker months before Batman had last captured the monstrous jester. Like other unbalanced lawbreakers before him, Frey had been captivated by the Joker and eager to join his bloody legacy. During the months the murderous clown had been kept in a medically induced coma in the high-security ward at Gotham General, Fray had plotted to liberate his hero. He had hacked into Arkham's database with ease and poured over the schematics of the cell designed to hold the Joker. Fray recruited his army with surprising ease: He was not the only one attracted to madness.

The assault on Arkham had originally been planned for April 1 – Fray was a fan of poetic irony – but the unexpected return of subcontractors to the Joker's cell and the delay in transporting him to the asylum had set the mission back. It was not that the repairs Batman had ordered were of any consequence. Fray's talents with electrical circuitry superseded the need to exploit mere technical flaws in the cell's structure. But he had not known the exact nature of the construction work and he wanted to be prepared for any eventuality. Fray had not been able to access the revised schematics from the Arkham data base. From reading Persky's e-mails, it seemed as if Batman sent a handwritten list of corrections to Perksy's home. Eventually, though, the fixes were uploaded onto CAD systems in the offices of the architect and engineer who had been contracted to design the cell. Until Fray examined them, he had not considered it safe to launch his attack.

* * *

At four o'clock in the morning, most of the security force at Arkham was engaged in writing nightly reports or in making a final patrol. When a pair of thunderous explosions blew out the doors of the asylum, the guards made a valiant effort to regroup and fight the sea of armed invaders, but they were badly outmatched. There were as many Arkham guards as there were attackers, but there wasn't anyone like Fray on the good guys' side.

As his army trampled past him, Fray stood triumphantly in the frame of the institution's main doors, a gleam in his eyes.

"_Nothing will quite catch your eye,"_ he quoted gleefully. _"As Spring's first dainty butterfly." _He opened his hand, releasing a mechanical replica of the insect – as colorful and elegant as its living counterpart – but with wings that flashed hummingbird quick – and were made of razors.

The bladed butterfly shot from Fray's hand and into the neck of an Arkham guard, shredding his carotid artery. When its first victim dropped to the ground, it immediately sought another, flying blithely as a sun-kissed moth until it found another body to burrow into.

Fray glowed with wicked satisfaction as he watched his invention slice through the throat of the second guard. Then he opened a metal chest two of his minions had placed beside him. On his command, a hundred menacing metal butterflies rose into the air and hurtled through the halls of Arkham

* * *

Lucy DiTomasa had not so much as looked up when she heard the first scream. Screaming was white noise at Arkham, like the whirr of the ventilation system in an office building. An alarm would sound if there were real trouble and Lucy did not have the time to waste on idle curiosity. She had plans to meet her husband for breakfast and she needed to update some reports before checking out. Persky would probably not make it in today – she heard his bite wounds would require weeks of painful debridement – but his assistant was relentless in her insistence that all paperwork be completed.

It was the second scream, quickly followed by a third, that got her attention. Procedure required her to lock her door and call security if she suspected danger, but Lucy was tired from a tedious night shift and she wasn't sure there was really anything to worry about anyway. She stepped out into the hallway, where she barely had time to register the sight of the robotic butterfly that decapitated her.

* * *

Fray had deactivated the alarm system with a wave of his hand before his minions had set foot in Arkham. This not only left the guards unaware, but short-circuited a link to the Gotham police, who, along with Batman, remained oblivious to the onslaught. Fray walked jauntily through the halls of Arkham, nimbly stepping over the dead bodies, which seemed to be composed in equal numbers of his own men and the Arkham guards. His journey to the third floor occurred without incident. With the gunfire and shouting serving as background music, he caressed the door to the Joker's cell and it slid open. The Joker had sensed – maybe smelled – the chaos. He was standing in the middle of the small room, his wild wide eyes staring expectantly past the opening door.

"Hello, Boss," Fray said. The shriek of laughter that greeted him felt like a caress.

* * *

Lakeeta Reardon was driving to work when she received a call from central dispatch. This did not bode well – most calls were routed through her assistant, who had the uncanny knack of arriving at the office about a minute before Reardon. The dispatcher's report was so bizarre that Reardon actually pulled her phone away from her ear and stared at it.

"_Butterflies?"_ She repeated. The dispatcher repeated her report that a frantic psychiatric nurse at Arkham Asylum had locked herself in a deserted office, dialed 911 on her cell phone and sobbed that the institution was under attack by killer butterflies.

"We get an alarm?" asked Reardon, who was already turning her car in the direction of Arkham. The dispatcher said that they had not and then urgently asked to put Reardon on hold. When she returned on the line, her voice was strained. There had been another call from an Arkham employee. Before his cell phone went dead, he confirmed the bizarre report of murderous butterflies, but he added something they all found easier to grasp: Men with guns had followed the purported insects into Arkham.

"Send everyone," Reardon ordered. "Call back every shift and get them right over there. And call Batman."

* * *

Despite Fray's request that they leave Arkham immediately, Joker insisted on making two stops on the way out. One was to the cell of Victor Zsasz, who eagerly joined his longtime idol. The second cell Fray opened belonged to Harvey Dent, who had dreaded the visit since he first heard the pandemonium on the other side of his door.

"Harvey… my dear friend," the Joker said grandly. "Time to go. Chop-chop."

Harvey knew the smart thing to do was probably to go. The Joker might take a refusal personally, and in truth, there was a part of him that longed for the release that madness would bring. But he believed the likelihood of surviving this sort of escapade at his age was slim and realized he might at least have the power to decide whether his final act was to decline evil or embrace it. He thought about the sole person in twenty years that had shown faith in him and knew that even if she were now lying dead in her office, he didn't want to disappoint Martha Kent.

He looked at the floor and shook his head. "Bad knees," he mumbled. "I'd hold you up."

An astonished cackle pierced the air and Harvey waited for the bullet to follow. When nothing happened, he looked up and saw only an open cell door.

* * *

Dawn was creeping over Gotham when Superwoman returned from the catastrophe in Myanmar. She slipped through her open bedroom window and flipped on the television before heading into the bathroom for a quick shower. She was reaching for the hot-water faucet when she heard a broadcaster say, "… Commissioner Reardon reports at least thirty casualties among the guards and medical personnel at Arkham…. Twenty-five attackers also dead…. Most of the prisoners have been returned ….

Superwoman was already halfway to Arkham before the newscaster added seven police officers to the body count, some murdered at the hands of inmates, others the victims of what seemed to be flying razors.

The scene at Arkham was sickening. Bloody corpses were strewn on the grounds and entrance to the asylum. Medical personnel were standing by with stretchers, but Reardon had not let them cross the police line, fearing the emergency workers might themselves become victims of the handful of mechanical devices that whizzed around, slicing at any exposed portion of flesh. Superwoman spotted one of the gizmos just outside the main asylum doors and crushed it. Inside the lobby, she saw more bodies and understood immediately why the inmates had been easy to corral: Those who had seized the opportunity to escape had been attacked by the flying razor things. Superwoman smashed two more of them before finding Batman. He was fighting the last of the rebelling inmates – Sylvester Slipp, BoneCruncher and a woman who seemed skilled at turning anything – pencils in this case – into a throwing weapon.

Superwoman flew in a low, wide horizontal arc that sent her hurtling one-by-one into all three of them. They fell in a pile like oversized dominoes. She didn't think Batman would mind; there were too many wounded in need of attention to worry about combat etiquette.

"Where've you been?" he asked, hauling the unconscious men into a nearby cell. Superwoman tossed the female inmate in with them and filled him in on Myanmar.

"Is the Joker gone?" she asked.

"I'm about to go check," he said. "Hard to believe this didn't have something to do with him."

Superwoman nodded miserably. Months of preparation and precautions – as well as manpower and money – had ended with yet another massacre of innocents by the Joker. And now he was loose again.

"I think I got all of those butterfly things," she said. "I'll go help with the wounded." She started to turn away. Batman grabbed her arm.

"Here's the problem," he said. "I spoke to Harvey Dent –"

"Oh, thank God he's alive," she said automatically.

"He said there were dozens of 'those butterfly things,'" Batman said. "But when I got here, there were maybe ten."

"Oh, God…."

"Leave the wounded to the paramedics," Batman said. "We've got to stop a bloodbath."

* * *

Unfortunately for the guardians of Gotham, the bloodbath had already started. It was never clear whether the Joker's new posse had actually driven into the city's business district, where tens of thousands of office workers were moving along the streets and sidewalks, or whether Fray was able to control the lethal butterflies from a distance. Logistics were a secondary matter, or maybe a third, when compared to the magnitude of the carnage committed upon hundreds of commuters by the tinny monsters.

Businessmen and women who might have heard about the attack at Arkham on their car radios while driving to work had invariably turned their attention to the hours that lay before them or the unseasonably sunny morning. When the first flying razors tore into the face of an accountant from Fox Securities, passers-by looked at him dully, as if wondering why he had splashed red ink on his face.

The morning commuter stupor did not last for long. Within seconds, the streets were filled with screams of terror and torment. Having locked on a particular target, a butterfly would pursue it relentlessly, slashing away at any exposed piece of flesh that could not be hastily covered. Most of Fray's flying weapons were small and could slide past arms trying to cover vulnerable areas. Women in skirts and open blouses were preferred targets – there was much more bare flesh to carve away.

Reardon had sent every cop in the city to Arkham; now they had to go back. This was a 25-minute commute under the best conditions. With frantic drivers fleeing in every possible direction – and with little regard to traffic laws – it would probably have taken them an hour.

Superwoman circumvented the traffic in her usual manner – she was in the fracas within minutes of a report of a desperate cell phone call from a commuter on Bank Street. Glad for a hand-to-eye coordination that was honed, at her father's insistence, on playing baseball instead of video games, she was snatching away at the darting daggers before her cloaked Reeboks hit the pavement.

Batman barreled through the streets in his most armored Batmobile – a hyper-charged tank model he used for riots at Arkham. He regretted the delay – by not hitching a ride with Superwoman, he was losing 15 precious moments at Ground Zero – but he needed the car. By the time he arrived, Superwoman had caught more than half of the butterflies and most of the people who survived the onslaught had managed to find shelter.

The Batmobile screeched to a skidding stop in the middle of the chaos and its speakers blared orders for all citizens to drop to the ground. Moments later, a low humming noise emerged from the mammoth black vehicle and, without warning, every loose piece of metal on Bank Street went careening into its impenetrable body.

In less than a minute, it was over. Dozens of butterflies slammed into the Batmobile like tiny meteors. None of them survived the impact. Later, Batman would regret that not a single one remained intact. They were worth studying, if only to understand how Fray's power worked and what technology he was using.

As soon as Batman deactivated the magnet, Superwoman was checking for survivors among the wounded. Batman emerged from the car, located the sound of approaching ambulances and strode over to Superwoman, who was using a sobbing man's tie as a tourniquet. .

"We've got to find them," he shouted over the cries of pain and hysteria.

Superwoman straightened and shook her head. "No. The rescue squads can't handle this many dead and wounded. Neither can Gotham General. There must be a thousand people here. I have to stay."

She met his eyes and he nodded. Batman could not quarrel with her judgment this time. He understood the priorities of a doctor. His father had been the same way.

As he turned toward the car, Batman thought he heard her say, "Be careful." But when he looked over his shoulder, he saw that Superwoman had lifted a bloody woman into her arms and was lifting off for Gotham General.

* * *

Night had fallen long before the last patient had been evacuated to Gotham General. The emergency rooms and trauma bays were glutted with torn bodies, many of them dead. It had not been difficult for Superwoman to realize when Dr. Martha Kent would be of greater assistance than a blonde in digital tights. Her certification in emergency was a bonus – at this point the hospital was pleading for help from anyone able to as much unpeel a Band-Aid.

The hours spent stabilizing patients were a blur of anguished cries and ripped flesh, punctuated occasionally by a personal blow that she could not let herself think about. One of the few surviving Arkham guards had told her about the death of Lucy DiTomasa, her best friend among the asylum staff. The guard who had ordered Martha into her office during the lockdown was also dead.

It was 4 AM – twenty-four hours from the time of the invasion of Arkham – when she wandered out of the back door of a trauma bay to get a breath of air. It was not fresh air – the dead lay stacked in stretchers along the sides of the building – but it felt cool against her bloody gray-blue scrubs and the damp hairline exposed by her hastily fastened ponytail. Her eyes rested sadly on the body of a dead cop with shaggy black hair.

"Ieiri." Batman was standing about a yard behind her, sounding as worn out as she felt.

"Yeah," Martha said shakily. She closed her eyes and drew in a ragged breath. "I guess it's a good thing I never went out with him." She did not have to ask to know that Batman had not found the Joker or the monster who had broken him out of Arkham.

A thick, dark silence surrounded them for nearly a minute. Then the back door opened, revealing a woman supporting a wounded teen-ager.

"_Por favor dígame donde está el cuarto de x-ray,"_ woman asked. Please tell me where is the x-ray room. She saw Batman standing behind the small doctor and drew back slightly.

Martha replied, _"Detrás dentro, haga un izquierdo en el vestíbulo. Dos puertas abajo."_ Back inside, make a left at the hallway. Two doors down.

"_Gracias."_

"You speak Spanish?" Batman asked. "I thought you spoke French."

She turned towards him. "My French is decent. My Spanish is ... a work in progress. French isn't very useful here."

Batman scowled up toward the cloud-shrouded moon. "Is there anything you don't know?" It was a rhetorical question. He started to walk away.

"I don't know why you don't like me." Martha had not meant to say it. She had not wanted him to know how much his coldness frustrated her – she sensed it would be a win of sorts for him that she didn't intend for him to have. But the bloodshed in Myanmar and the carnage that transpired upon her return to Gotham – coupled with hours of exhaustion and loss and sorrow – had worn her down. Her self-control was gone, along with her usually judicious internal censor.

He stopped walking. "Everyone has to like you?"

"If they don't, they have a _reason_. Beyond the fact that I'm Clark Kent's daughter." She had completely lost control of her mouth. "You don't like him. Fine. You're an idiot, but fine. I'm sorry that you resent everything he has, that you think it's somehow wrong for him to have a happy family and friends and a life that's more than just beating the crap out of endless bad guys. You may not have noticed this, but he's _Superman_. He barely has to sleep and he does everything super-fast, so he's got more time for all of those things.

"You want to keep resenting him, just go ahead. _But I'm not him_," Martha added fiercely. "My life is nothing like his. I'm not just an extension of my father."

He had kept his back toward her during her entire rant and now he took his time in turning to face her.

"Actually," he said. "You sound more like an extension of your mother."

Disgust at his attempt to bait her in the middle of a bloodbath overcame her natural instinct to lash out. She shook her head and said, "I don't have time for this." Then she strode back into the hospital.

If possible, the scene inside was even worse than it had been five minutes before. Martha was more than used to the sight of blood, but she'd never become accustomed to the audible evidence of another person's suffering. The pleas for help, the cries of pain made her feel nauseated. She tried to tune them out as she grabbed a patient chart from the triage station.

She did not look around the room again, save to locate her next patient, for more than an hour. She was applying the last skin staple to a gash in a woman's calf, when she heard someone call, "Councilman!"

She looked toward the Emergency Room doors, where a stylishly coiffed young woman in a business suit stood glaring across the room in apparent exasperation. Martha easily found the target of the woman's irritation where he stood on the other side of the ER. He was a handsome man in his early 30s, with thick brown hair and a sturdy build. The man looked completely out of place in his expensive business suit until he turned slightly and Martha saw that the front of his shirt and jacket were so entirely soaked with blood that his tie was almost invisible. He was collecting bloody blankets from waiting patients; an off-duty cop was replacing them with warm, clean ones.

The man seemed mildly surprised to have been summoned. He ambled over to the woman with the blood-drenched linens still piled high in his arms. He allowed himself to be scolded for a few minutes, then said something that made the woman leave. He headed for the nearest infectious linen hamper, only to find it overflowing.

"Excuse me," he said to Martha, who had continued to watch him. "Do you know where I can put these?"

She smiled tiredly. "I'm afraid you're going to have to dump them next to the bin. They're all full. You aren't exactly dressed for the party," she observed.

The man let the blankets drop from his arms onto a spot near the hamper. "Well… I came here to, you know…" He used his fingers to make quotation marks in the air. "To 'observe the scene,' but… you just can't stand here, can you, with all this suffering."

Martha studied his broad, chiseled face and stretched out a hand. "Martha Kent."

"Josh Greenberg." His grip was warm and strong.

They stood awkwardly for a moment. Martha gestured back toward her patient. "I guess we'd better…."

"Yeah," said Josh Greenberg. "Back to the blanket patrol. Nice meeting you."

"Yeah," Martha said. She turned back to her patient and reached for some dressings. She was a little surprised at herself. It was unusual for her to be attracted to someone so quickly and she was glad for the feeling, even in the aftermath of a massacre, even though she'd probably never see Councilman Greenberg again.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _The name of the guy that kills you_

* * *


	19. Chapter 19

* * *

Owls are a natural predator of bats, but the occasional hoots he would heard each spring on the grounds of Wayne Manor had never bothered Batman. Reports of the creatures in the more central areas of Gotham – where they had never been found before – concerned him greatly. A man who can create a fleet of murderous mechanical butterflies could probably do worse with an army of razor-taloned raptors. Batman was hunting owls in the inner city. It might have be a long shot, but two days of searching for the Joker and his new sidekick – if that's what the technopath was – had exhausted his other leads.

Word had it that the men were still holed up somewhere in Gotham. That was no surprise. Batman suspected the ring of police and National Guard surrounding the city had little to do with Joker's decision to linger. Clowns like him – whether they wore the make-up or not – seemed determined to rub the Dark Knight's nose in the fact that they'd gotten the best of him More often than not, that was when Batman ended up getting the best of _them_.

Quiver had phoned in an hour ago to report that she was turning in. She had joined the hunt upon her return from Myanmar, where she, Arsenal and Gren had stayed behind to apprehend the bombers. It had been a bitter affair – the terrorists had been deeply entrenched within that country's despotic government and Quiver was convinced the perpetrators had been released as soon as Gren had flown her father and herself out of the country. She had been glad to join a pursuit she believed would result in some actual justice.

Batman moved cautiously down an alley where a series of hoots and fluttering sounds had been reported by an informant who was an expert on predators – human and otherwise. Because he was not sure what to expect – or even whether he was pursuing a worthwhile lead – he had equipped himself for the worse. His fighting suit included torso armor that extended to his chin. The mask he'd chosen completely covered his lower face. Only his eyes were exposed. On his back was a device that would emit a small electro-magnetic pulse – one that would knock out anything electrical within the space of a city block.

He had not asked about Superwoman, but Quiver volunteered the information that Martha Kent had returned to Gotham General late that evening as soon as she'd left her job at Arkham. Asylum and hospital were still catastrophe sites and Lian was concerned about Martha's ability to cope with the workload she'd taken on. From what Lian could tell, her roommate hadn't slept in days.

_She always fights her heart out. _

Batman winced at the unwelcome memory of Martha Kent's battered face following the fight with DevilDog. Not for the first time following an encounter with her, he felt slightly ashamed. He had not gone to Gotham General with the intent of provoking her, though he could not pretend he had not known she would be there. He had watched for several minutes while she performed a tracheostomy on a patient gurgling on his own blood and Batman found himself impressed by her calm professionalism. Roy hadn't been wrong in creating a spot for Martha as the Justice League's doctor, he thought. She knew her emergency medicine and she seemed to thrive under pressure.

Batman had been about to seek out the ER director to get an idea of the body count when a patient two stretchers away from Martha went into cardiac arrest. He had watched, riveted, as she tried futilely to revive the woman. When Martha put down the paddles after a failed fourth attempt, her forlorn face made Bruce recall Clark's quiet declaration that his daughter was not invulnerable. That had been when she had decided to step outside, and when Batman had walked around the back of the hospital to join her.

He stopped for a moment, listening to the ambient sounds of a Gotham City alley – distant sirens, the crunch of shoes on glass, the hum of a streetlight that would soon need a new bulb. This angle was beginning to feel more like a waste of time. He'd give it another hour, maybe less, before heading back to the cave to regroup.

It was not lost on Batman that he seemed most likely to provoke Martha Kent when she was particularly vulnerable. He neither liked nor understood this tendency and as he turned the corner into an adjoining alley – this one just as dismal as the previous one – he remembered her look of weary disdain outside the hospital and knew it had probably been deserved. Batman had not appreciated the instant back-alley psychoanalysis, but it had not been unexpected. In truth, he had felt a certain satisfaction in drawing such a fiery response from her. It did not justify his impulse to antagonize a tired and despondent woman who had so recently fought by his side.

He had not apologized to Martha after the Slipp affair because she had been perfectly pleasant to him the next time they'd met and he hadn't wanted to needlessly stir up hard feelings. This time, he didn't see how he could avoid –

_Hoot. _Batman froze.

_Hoot. Hoot._

Shit.

It wasn't just a misplaced owl, not even one put there deliberately to taunt him. The night bird's call was flat and mechanical. This alley was occupied – perhaps loaded – with ominous flying weapons with better night vision than Batman's.

He had no qualms about summoning Superwoman now. Batman raised the armored left sleeve of his fighting suit to his mouth and whispered a code into the cellular phone implanted there. It did not activate and he knew he was in trouble. Without hesitation, he punched the button that activated the EMP. Not a single city light extinguished and he could hear cars motoring down a nearby street. He jabbed at the button again.

"Don't think that's working," said an amused voice from the shadows just up ahead of him. "Your phone neither."

Before Batman could as much as shift his eyes towards the voice, he was hit by a barrage of mailbox-sized projectiles, all of them screeching and hooting with synthetic fury. The robotic owls slammed into his chest and head, knocking him backwards. He barely had the chance to shake a pair of night vision goggles into place, protecting his eyes and allowing him an eerie vision of frenzied owlish attackers that he would take to his grave.

The armor he wore over his arms, torso and groin prevented the owls from hurting him there, and the headgear was holding up as well. But he was pinned down by the weight and momentum of the creatures. Within seconds, the owls honed in on his most vulnerable spot – he had never been able to develop armor for his legs that would not cripple his mobility. His suit was laced with the sheerest Kevlar, but it wasn't impenetrable. He could feel jagged beaks and razor-like claws, tearing away at his thighs and shins.

You could beat every criminal in the city for three decades and still the thugs would underestimate you, he thought, forcing his arm to his belt through a torrent of vicious owls. The technopath had failed to do his homework. Batman never allowed himself one contingency plan. There were always three or four.

He unbuckled the belt and started to slide out of it, his progress hampered by the onslaught of mechanical raptors. They had managed to tear away most of his fighting suit and were gnawing away at his legs, but Batman focused on his task, ignoring the pain he knew would soon be over. Finally, he managed to slide the entire belt to his right side. He felt for a large compartment near the buckle and flipped it open.

It was if the ferocious flying robots had been sucked towards a black hole that was located in the center of his belt. A technopath might stop the triggering of an electromagnetic pulse, but there was nothing he could do against a powerful natural magnet. When he'd excavated the cave many years ago, Batman had found large deposits of lodestone. Eventually, he'd learned to enhance their natural magnetic power.

Struggling to his feet was torture – his legs were torn and bleeding, though most of the damage deemed superficial. He scanned the alley for his nemesis, half expecting him to have run off when his robots failed to accomplish their mission. Part of Batman was sorry – he wanted a crack at the bastard, soon, and preferably without his deadly mechanical menagerie. But Batman also knew his wounds could use tending. And he needed to re-stock his weapons and think through the strategies that would make capturing the technopath easier.

But the villain had not run. Batman could hear him giggling softly in the darkness.

"Got yourself a name?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah," the technopath replied. "You _should_ know the name of the guy that kills you. My name is Fray. But maybe you wanna call me "Flay."

And he uncoiled a long, thick whip that Batman could tell was nothing like anything Indiana Jones had cracked.

Fray was a big man, but Batman had fought much bigger. The technopath's size didn't disturb him and he was unlikely to turn out to be a weapons master. But this scenario didn't seem to fit – this guy manipulated technology. His use of an ancient weapon seemed incongruous – and foreboding.

Snickering nastily, Fray stepped out of the shadows. And his whip came alive.

Ordinarily, Batman relied on two focal points when battling an opponent with a flexible weapon – the operator's forearm and wrist and the tip of the implement itself. Even with a longer whip, it was possible to anticipate the weapon's trajectory and disarm an attacker. It was merely a matter of waiting for the right moment.

But while Fray was holding the whip, he clearly wasn't using his arm to control it. The attacks came from random directions; Batman found himself barely able to block the first blow. It was not until the second strike that he was able to seize the lash.

It was a stunning piece of machinery, seemingly comprised of silicon and a synthetic technology Batman couldn't immediately identify. As the lash slipped from his grasp, he could see it was long and flat – maybe two inches wide and half a centimeter thick – rather than the standard round woven leather variety.

On his third attack, Flay attempted to put some torque into his blow and Batman could tell the lash would sail in an arc towards his head. He readied himself for the catch, determined this time to hang on to the weapon – but it never came, because the whip had twisted itself in mid-air and had snapped around his right leg with blinding speed and force. He looked down through incomprehensible pain to see the lash wrapped from the middle of his thigh to just above his ankle. Knowing he could not disentangle himself without controlling the weapon, he reached for the whip where it started to wind around the top of his leg.

He heard Fray say, "I don't think so, Batty." And then what was already a nightmare turned infinitely worse.

Jagged, saw-like teeth emerged from the edge of the lash that was already biting into Batman's leg and began to burrow into his flesh. Flay gave a hard jerk on the whip and was treated to the rare sound of Batman crying out in agony.

"I guess a lot of guys think that they'll be the ones to kill you," Fray said, watching in satisfaction as his weapon ate through Batman's leg. "But looks like I'm the one who actually does it."

Any moment now, the whip-turned-saw would slice though his femoral artery and he would bleed to death less than a minute. Batman felt himself losing consciousness and his footing at the same time. If he fell, he would be helpless, and in seconds, he would die.

Mustering whatever small amount of strength and will he had left, Batman wrenched his left leg upward and slammed the steel toe of his boot into Fray's right temple. He could not be sure of the strength of the kick and there would be no follow-up blow. His shattered body slammed into the ground at the worst possible angle, and the impact made him feel as if his lungs had been filled with cement. He could no longer hear the buzzing of the saw, nor could he feel his leg at all, but he was sure the artery had been severed. He was blacking out.

His head had fallen onto his left arm and without stopping to wonder if it would work this time, Batman mumbled a code into the phone built into his sleeve. He thought he heard a ring, and a voice, but he could not be sure.

"Help me," he whispered, before the world disappeared.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _Batman - and others - fight for his life._

* * *


	20. Chapter 20

Martha had just gotten out of the shower when she heard the muffled song that announced an incoming call on her cell phone. The phone was still on the inside pocket of her denim jacket, which hung on a kitchen chair. She eyed the garment resentfully, as though it, and not the phone, was beckoning her. Then she tugged a pajama tank shirt over her still-wet body and shambled reluctantly towards the kitchen. There could be no good in this call, she was sure. If it wasn't Arkham or the hospital, it was her mother calling for inside color on the atrocities. Martha loved Lois, but she wasn't in the mood to re-live the last few days with anyone. She shoved her hand into the jacket and grabbed the phone before the second ring, flipping it open with one hand, while guiding herself into a pair of low-rise pajama bottoms with the other.

"Hello?" She did nothing to conceal the note of suspicion in her voice. At the very least, Martha thought, her caller deserved to feel uncomfortable for whatever he or she was about to ask her to do.

"_Help me."_ The voice was so broken, so desperate, that she barely recognized it.

"Bruce?"

He did not answer. Adrenaline whipped through Martha. She'd heard the same plea in the same whisper from a dozen mangled people over the last few days. All of them were now lying in the Gotham General morgue.

"Bruce, where are you?" No answer.

She pulled the phone away from her ear and thumbed a few keys. A small map popped up on her screen. In the center, blinking red, was the tiny figure of a man.

He was less than a mile away. Martha shot out through the window without bothering to open it, and without bothering to stop for her holographic costume.

It took her seconds to reach the alley. She strained frantically to see in the pitch blackness. She heard a soft human sound, not substantial enough to be a moan, and she moved toward it, tripping, to her surprise, over a body that she could tell right away was not Batman's.

Then she saw him. "Oh my God," she whispered.

Batman lay in a shattered heap on his left side, his head still resting on his armored sleeve. His mouth was slack, his breath was choppy and shallow. His right leg, in contrast to the gray and black of his fighting suit, was a sickening, sticky red from hip to boot. Blood was spurting freely from four or five arterial cuts, at least two of them femoral.

Martha dropped to her knees to apply pressure to the wounds and realized she was kneeling in a pool of his blood.

Without hesitation, Martha ripped off her tank top and tore it into a tourniquet, which she applied to Batman's upper thigh at super-speed. She knew that in cutting off his circulation she was risking permanent damage to his leg, but she was more concerned about his life right now – and she wouldn't keep the tourniquet on anyway – just long enough to get him home.

She lifted him in her arms and bolted through the air, praying he'd still be alive by the time she got him to her apartment.

* * *

Lian had been reading in her bedroom when she heard her kitchen window shatter. She was still putting two and two together – her suddenly missing roommate with a window break that pushed the glass outwards instead of inwards – when the front door of the apartment flew off its hinges and Martha stumbled through the door, carrying a Batman who looked really dead.

"What happened?" Lian gasped. She did a double-take at her roommate and added, "Where's your shirt?"

Martha laid Batman gently on the floor. "Get the trauma kit from under my bed," she said, her eyes locked on his wounded leg. Lian disappeared into the room, returning almost instantly with a large storage plastic storage container filled with medical supplies.

"Here." She pushed a t-shirt into Martha's hands. Martha shrugged it on automatically, saying, "Get the Ringer's from the warmer."

It took Lian seconds to grab a few bags of the blood replacement fluid; by then Martha had removed the tourniquet and applied a long compression sleeve to Batman's shredded leg at super-speed and was starting an IV. As soon as the Ringer's lactate started flowing, Martha put a hand on his chin and leaned into his pale face.

"Bruce!"

Nothing. Martha pulled a pre-filled syringe of epinephrine out of the kit and injected it into his jugular vein. Almost imperceptibly, his chest twitched.

"Bruce. What's your blood type?"

Broken lips, barely moving, shattered an endless, agonizing silence. "O. Pos…."

"Thank God." Lian was already running to the warmer. Martha started a second IV and started blood infusions through both of his arms. His eyes fluttered open for a moment.

"You… vampires?"

Over Lian's startled laugh, Martha, continuing to examine him, said, "Lian's O-Positive. I wanted to make sure we had some here if she needed it."

His head rolled toward Martha where she knelt on the floor beside him. "My leg…."

"I'm going to try to save it, Bruce," she said fervently. "But we've got to save you first."

Pushing up on her knees to reach the low-set IV pole, Martha gave one of the bags of blood a squeeze. Batman caught a flash of color on her hip, just above the waistband of her pajamas.

"You have a tattoo," he mumbled, closing his eyes. His head lolled, slack-jawed, to one side.

Lian laughed again. "He isn't gay," she said, as Martha peeled back the top of the compression sleeve. A thick stream of blood spurted onto Batman's left leg and the floor next to him. Martha immediately resealed the sleeve. She grabbed Lian by the arm.

"Call my father," she said. "Use Meera if you have to. Tell him we need O-Positive blood, a surgical kit, antibiotics and anesthetics." She sucked in a deep, steadying breath. "Tell him to get the best microsurgery and replantation surgeon he can find at Metropolis Medical Center and bring him here _now_. He's too late and Batman dies."

Shocked, Lian said, "Gotham General –"

"Lian, there's not a Band-Aid left at Gotham General. And no beds." Martha started ripping off the armor covering Batman's upper body. "Anyway, we can't move him."

Sobered, Lian reached for the phone. "He can't die. He's Batman."

"Right now," said Martha, pulling off his mask, "He's Bruce Wayne. And if you don't make that phone call, he's going to die."

* * *

As soon as Lian hung up the phone, Martha sent her roommate to the nearest drug store for interim supplies. It had taken her seconds to prepare Bruce for surgery. Alternating between checking his vital signs and making the dubiously clean surgical field as hygienic as she could, Martha sweated the minutes away. If she kept the sleeve on his leg much longer, he would suffer too much tissue death – they'd have to amputate. It would be a high amputation and she couldn't imagine him being able to fight effectively on even the highest-tech prosthesis.

She replaced both bags of blood and noted that they were the last. Martha was not sure if Bruce could live with his life's mission incomplete, but the question would be moot if Superman didn't arrive quickly, with more blood.

His right foot, pasty-pale, was cold. Martha knew she couldn't wait any longer. She'd have to try to restore the femoral artery, at least, before Batman's leg began to die.

It has been years since she'd performed vascular surgery – and even then it had been under the guidance of a senior resident. Martha remembered what do to – but it was the experience that brought true skill, and she had almost none.

_Please forgive me_, she thought, moments later, scrubbed, gloved and masked, as she started to repair the wound. _Please forgive me if I mess this up, Bruce._

Lian returned from the Rite-Aid fifteen minutes later. Superman had not arrived. Martha, her eyes still locked on the tiny segment of artery she was now suturing, ordered her roommate to scrub in and grab a retractor. As queasy as the idea of participating in any kind of surgery made Lian, she did not hesitate.

"Cover his face," said Martha suddenly, still intent on her repairs.

"What?" Lian asked.

"The surgeon," explained Martha, tying in the suture. "He can't see Bruce's face." Gingerly, she opened the small clamp holding the artery closed and scrutinized the repaired tear. There were no leaks.

"You did it!" Lian said.

Martha looked up at her wearily, reached for a blue surgical towel and draped it over Bruce's upper nose and eyes. "Lian," she said. "There are a dozen fuckin' holes in this thing. I just fixed the first one."

She edged down the compression sleeve in order to find the next bleeder when they heard a noise by the door Martha had earlier kicked off its hinges. Lian had leaned the door back against the frame when she'd returned from the drug store. Now Superman was sliding it across the apartment wall. As he took in the sight of his daughter and her best friend kneeling on the floor by a mostly naked, near-dead Bruce Wayne – all three of them soaked in blood – his eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, my God," he said.

Martha looked past Superman to a shaken middle-aged man with glasses and a shell-shocked expression. "You the surgeon?"

He nodded and lifted a small vascular surgical tray in a seeming attempt to confirm his assent. "Trey Cohen," he managed.

"Dr. Cohen, please get scrubbed," said Martha, nodding toward her kitchen sink. "This is Batman. I need you to save his life and his leg."

Cohen strode to the sink without asking a single question. Martha, now repairing the second tear in Bruce's femoral artery, told him everything she knew about Batman's injury, his physical status and what she had done so far to help him. When he joined her, the replantation surgeon inspected her first repair and told her she'd done a good job.

"I'll assist you," said Martha, offering Cohen the needle-holder.

"No," said the surgeon, moving to the other side of his new patient. "We'll have to double-team it. Even together, it's going to take us hours to close all of these holes." He shook his head unhappily at the prospect of the next few hours. "And then we'll have to start on the muscle repair."

He grabbed a second small needle-holder from his own surgical kit and loaded on a tiny curved vascular needle trailing fine blue synthetic thread.

"Does that mean I have to stay here, too?" asked Lian unhappily.

"Yeah," said Martha. "But first break and hang a few more bags of blood. Superman, can you please put the rest of them in the warmer?"

Cohen looked up at her. "Superman said you're a psychiatrist?"

"Yeah," said Martha, torquing her needle gently through a minute sliver of artery. "Crazy, isn't it?"

* * *

Blurs. Bruce thought he had opened his eyes, but he saw only blurs. His tongue touched dry, salty lips and he tried to feel his body, but sensation, too, was only a blur. He worked his jaw and tongue, but no sounds came out.

"Bruce?"

_Nurse_. He tried to say the word. He was thirsty.

"Wha…wa -"

A warm hand slipped behind the back of his sweaty head, tilting it slightly forward. Cool glass touched his lips and a few drops of water spilled tentatively into his mouth.

"More?" Bruce nodded slightly, soaking in the woman's gentle touch as needily as the water. She tilted the glass back to his lips. "Sorry. No straws."

She eased his head back onto a pillow. He blinked a few times and the room came into focus. So did his memory.

"Leg?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Still there," said Martha Kent, leaning against the back of a chair she'd placed next to the bed. "Can you feel it?"

Bruce shook his head.

"Count your blessings. You will," she said. "It'll be a while before you're kicking someone's ass with it," she added.

"You…." He wet his lips. "Thanks."

Martha studied a slight rip in the blanket just below his right hand. "It's OK," she said quietly.

"How long…?"

"Two days," Martha said. "I'd ask how you feel, but I assume the answer would be 'horrible.' "

Bruce tried to nod, but his strength was gone and his consciousness fading. "Alfred…."

"He knows," said Martha. "He's been here."

Good, Bruce thought. He wondered where 'here' was and why there were stuffed superhero dolls sitting at the foot of the double bed. He did not seem to be in a hospital.

"Your room?" he asked.

"There was no where else to put you," said Martha. "We couldn't move you - and anyway, Gotham General's still overflowing."

It was suddenly dark. Bruce realized his eyes had closed.

"Get some sleep," he heard Martha say softly. "It's going to be all right."

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _A bedridden Bruce engages in a few enlightening conversations with his teammates._


	21. Chapter 21

* * *

He woke up coughing. His throat felt like sandpaper and jolts of fire were running down the length of his right leg. Martha had not lied about it still being there. Bruce was no longer sure he was glad of that.

Lian was sitting in the chair. Her eyes flicked up from a martial arts magazine.

"Awake?" she asked. He nodded. He noticed with distress the web of IV lines suspended around the bed and was uncomfortably aware of the presence of a Foley catheter.

"Water?" Martha had apparently rustled up a plastic straw. Bruce found himself unable to hold the glass himself. He managed a few sips, then looked past Lian towards the open bedroom door.

"She's getting some sleep in my room," said Lian astutely. She studied him for a few moments, before adding, "After the bloodiest, most grueling week of her entire life." Bruce did not know what to say. He shut his eyes.

"You need her?" asked Lian, who was clearly building up to something Bruce was sure he would not enjoy.

He mumbled, "I'm fine."

"Does your leg hurt?" Lian asked.

"Yes."

"That's good," she said brightly. "Means your nerves are working."

Bruce had the feeling she was just glad he was in pain. He had noticed a hospital-issue pain control pump near her chair, but Lian made no attempt to adjust it.

"Want me to catch you up?" she asked. He did not answer. He was beginning to feel nauseated, not only from the thundering pain in his leg, but from anticipation of an account of the past previous days he wasn't ready to hear.

Lian's description of the events following his disastrous battle with Flay was brutally vivid. His leg, she informed him, had looked "like one of those spiral turkeys – the boneless ones" or maybe just "like one of those big drumsticks at Disney World, after someone's thrown them on the ground and the pigeons have ripped them up."

She abandoned a third comparison when Bruce threatened to throw up.

Martha and some amputation expert had spent six grueling hours sewing up the holes in Bruce's blood vessels and re-attaching the muscles and ligaments, Lian continued. She herself had acted as a surgical assistant, holding retractors and passing instruments to the absorbed doctors as they struggled to make his leg whole again.

Afterwards, Martha thanked the surgeon profusely. Then she shocked both Lian and Superman by making a thinly veiled threat to have Meera Buhpathi monitor the man's thoughts and wipe his memory clean if he even thought of sharing his experience with anyone, even his wife.

"I don't think Meera can do that – the memory thing," said Lian. "But Martha that rude? How stressed out was she?" Bruce himself found this information surprising – but he was not sorry Martha had made the threat. If the underworld of Gotham found out he was injured, a criminal free-for-all could turn one nightmarish week into months of terror.

Lian concluded her report with the news that after Superman had helped move Bruce into Martha's bed and had flown the frazzled surgeon home, Martha had spent twenty minutes in the bathroom vomiting, a new and utterly miserable experience for her.

"Clark was here?" Bruce asked, desperately hoping to distract Lian from any evidence on his face that he had never felt more wretched in his life – a sentiment that had nothing to do with his screaming leg.

"Yeah, I think he was puking, too," said Lian. She looked at her watch. "OK. I can give you more morphine, now." She reached over to the infusion pump and punched in a few numbers. Then she turned back to Bruce with a ferocious look.

"I told you all this," she said fiercely, "So you would stop hurting my friend. She'd done nothing but try to help you. This time she almost killed herself doing it." Bruce opened his mouth, but he lost his reply somewhere in the rush of morphine.

"I know what you're doing," Lian added. "Next time just punch her on the arm and tell her she has cooties. It's much more mature and nowhere near as mean."

As he started spinning into unconsciousness, Bruce realized what Lian was trying to say. He opened his mouth to deny her absolutely absurd….

* * *

Bruce's eyes snapped open. "You're wrong," he said forcefully.

Roy Harper looked up from a book of crossword puzzles. "Bruce? Hey, you're up," he said happily.

"Where's Lian?" asked Bruce.

"She left hours ago," Roy said. "There a problem?"

_She's a bitch_, thought Bruce. _That's the problem._ He decided against sharing this information with Lian's father, especially as he appeared to be controlling the morphine dispenser. "No," he said. "Where's… Kent?"

"_Martha_?" asked Roy. "Her name isn't Voldemort, you know. Nothing bad happens when you say it."

"Who?" Bruce asked, suspecting the whole Harper family was insane.

"She's at Arkham," Roy said. "She called out for three days, until she was sure you were going to make it. She'll be back in a few hours. She's called like fourteen times," he added.

Bruce's eyes dropped to the blanket covering his legs. He tried to move his toes and thought he might have succeeded. Unfortunately, the effort sent waves of pure agony up his leg. His fingers dug into the mattress and he forced his teeth together to suppress a grunt of pain.

"Want some drugs?" asked Roy.

"Don't knock me out, though." It was time to get some answers.

Roy fiddled with the device. "How's that?" he asked.

"OK," Bruce said, hoping this would be true once the morphine kicked in. "What happened to Fray?"

"Who?"

Bruce tried to reach for a glass of water on the bedside table and almost knocked it to the floor. Roy hurried to hold the glass to his lips.

"Thanks. The guy who did this to me. Who killed all those people at Arkham and Gotham. The technopath. What happened to him?"

Roy looked uncomfortable. "I don't know."

Bruce's eyes bored into his. "Harper."

Roy contemplated the puzzle book, then said, "When Martha found you, there was a guy lying next to you. It was probably him." He looked back up at Bruce. "She had seconds to save you. She couldn't worry about him. Don't be angry with her."

Bruce stared at him. "How could I be?" he asked.

"Gren and Wally tried to find him," continued Roy, who was studying the dog-eared paperback again. "But it was too late. He was gone."

"It's OK." Bruce shut his eyes. "He's probably getting a lot of mileage over kicking my ass."

"Don't think so," Roy's voice became considerably more cheerful. Bruce opened his eyes again.

"Midori did a little fiddling with Martha's little holographic projector," Roy explained. "Batman _has_ been seen in Gotham City. He's even made a few arrests."

For the first time since he'd awakened in Martha Kent's apartment, Bruce felt a surge of hope. "Brilliant," he said weakly. "Who's wearing it?"

"All of us," said Roy. "We're taking turns."

"Thanks," Bruce said quietly.

They were silent for a moment. Then Roy looked up with a crooked grin.

"Lian tell you Martha had to use her pajama top as a tourniquet?" he asked.

"No. Why?" Bruce couldn't see how this detail was important.

Roy shot a quick look toward the bedroom door and leaned forward. "She wasn't wearing anything under it. She flew you back here topless."

"Really?" The morphine must have kicked in. Bruce felt a rush of alertness.

"Yeah," Roy said his hazel eyes glinting. "Can you imag –" Meera Buhpathi wandered into the doorway, a severe expression in her eyes.

"I mean, it wasn't very erotic at all, with her being drenched in your blood and everything," Roy said quickly.

"Not at all," Bruce agreed, with the same false gravity.

"Glad to see you're feeling better," Meera said to Bruce dryly. "And you're a pig," she added affectionately to Roy, before returning to the living room.

"You wish you'd seen it," Roy yelled after her. Bruce looked at Roy, then back at the spot where Meera had stood.

"She's got the next shift," Roy explained.

"When can I go home?" Bruce asked, his fatigue returning.

"Ask Martha."

* * *

Bruce drifted in and out of sleep for most of the afternoon. Meera sat her watch in peaceful silence, occasionally responding to his requests for water. Her presence was calming; Bruce had the impression she was meditating on his behalf.

After a few hours, Meera left the room for a few minutes and returned with a sandwich. Not long after that, he heard someone jiggle a key in the front door. Bruce opened his eyes in time to see Martha stick her head into the bedroom.

"Hi." She looked a little tired, but relieved to see him awake. Turning to Meera, Martha added, "Hi, Meera. Do you mind if I take a quick shower?"

Meera waved a consenting hand and Martha disappeared. Bruce listened to the sound of the shower and tried to organize his thoughts. He did not seem to be able to hold onto them for long, an effect, he supposed, of the trauma and the pain drugs.

"That's a long shower," he said.

Meera smiled. "Women take long, hot showers to relieve stress," she said. "Although Lian says Martha always uses up the hot water."

A pipe groaned and the shower cut off. Martha padded through the door a few minutes later, wearing jeans and a turquoise tank top. Her hair was damp and tousled; her feet bare. Bruce saw pink polish on her toenails.

"Everything OK?" she asked Meera as the women greeted each other with a hug.

"Yeah. Great patient. He's had some water. Pain level seems to have stabilized." Meera squeezed Bruce's hand, careful not to disturb the IV. "Feel better."

"Thanks." He watched the women embrace again. They were a huggy bunch, he thought, as Meera disappeared with a final wave.

Martha pulled the chair up close to the bed and asked, "How are you doing?"

Bruce wasn't sure how to answer. "Alive. Grateful."

Eyes intent on his, she asked, "In pain? Wasted?"

He nodded. Martha said, "I need to examine your leg."

Bruce shut his eyes and nodded again. Martha lifted the blanket covering his right leg, careful to respect his modesty by limiting the exposure to only the wounded area. He was uncomfortably aware of the rubber Foley line that crossed over his upper thigh, but he knew that the examination was inevitable and his self-consciousness belated. Martha had stabilized him, prepared his for surgery and dressed his wounds afterwards. And he had little doubt as to who had inserted the catheter. It was a little late to be embarrassed now.

She cut away the gauze from thigh to knee – it stuck a bit when she pulled it away from his skin, but the morphine protected him from feeling more than a numb tug – and gingerly cleansed the area with antiseptic. Her gloved fingers were gentle as they traced the spiral line Fray had cut into his leg.

"Nice," Martha whispered. She looked up. "No infection so far. I have to move your lower leg little, Bruce."

"OK," he said, bracing himself. Even with the preparation, it hurt like hell. Bruce sucked in his teeth as Martha made the slight adjustment.

"I'm sorry," she said. "No more." Moments later, those dressings were also removed, his wounds cleaned. Martha applied antibiotic ointment to the entire leg and re-dressed it, then covered it with the blanket.

She sat back into the chair, looking frazzled. "It looks good," she said. "We can take out the skin staples in a few days."

Bruce wondered if he would have to stay here until then. He was grateful for everything that Martha and everyone else had done for him, but he wanted to be home. Alfred had decades of experience in tending his wounds – there had been several bad ones over the years. He would recover best in his own bed. He knew he was keeping Martha out of her bedroom and disrupting her already demanding life. And he wasn't used to people he knew seeing him this way: weak, helpless. It made him feel old.

"When can I go home?" he asked.

Martha had been expecting the question. "Dr. Cohen – the replantation surgeon – is coming to check your leg tomorrow. If he gives the OK, we can move you. Alfred has already got your room set up – hospital bed and everything."

She hesitated, and then added, "I know you'd have rather kept outsiders, well, out of this, but I couldn't have saved your leg. Maybe not even your life. Everyone tells me I should know my limitations. Well, I did this time."

"You did the right thing," Bruce said. After a moment, he added, "I'll make sure you get a copy of my medical records."

Martha laughed. "I've got'em _now_. Did a whole physical. What I didn't know could have killed you."

He should have realized. It would be foolish to be angry at her for performing a physical when he was unconscious that he should have let her do months ago. It would be foolish, right now, to be angry at her for anything.

"A lot of things could have killed me," Bruce said. "Looks like you're the reason none of them did."

Martha blushed and studied the IV in his hand. "I just thank God you and Lian have the same blood type." She frowned at an IV bag that looked perfectly fine to Bruce and started fussing with it.

"Do Buddhists believe in God?" Bruce asked.

"I do," Martha said. "It's optional."

"I don't think Pat believes in God," Bruce mused.

"Who's Pat?" she asked.

"Spent a few semesters at Notre Dame," Bruce replied. "He was my roommate. Comparative religions major. We're still in touch."

"Pat from Notre Dame was a Buddhist?" she asked, amused.

"Well, his real name is Jangbu Sangye. But he liked us to call him Pat." At Martha's flabbergasted expression, he added, "I guess he's kind of a famous Buddhist."

"Well, _yeah_," Martha practically yelled. "_As he's the Dalai Lama_."

"I'll introduce you," Bruce said.

Her wary look caught him off guard. "This is my job," she said quietly. "You don't have to be nice to me. You don't owe me anything." Bruce felt a little sick. He had been miserable to her and now she didn't trust him. Why should she?

Martha started to move away from the bed. Impulsively, Bruce grabbed her wrist. The motion caused him to shift slightly in the bed. He was hit by what felt like a tidal wave of pain.

"Hurts?" Martha asked, alarmed. He nodded frantically, sucking hard at the air.

She pushed the button on the morphine pump several times, and then took the hand that still clutched her wrist. "It's OK," she murmured. Her other hand smoothed a lock of hair off of his forehead. "It'll be OK."

Bruce's eyes locked onto hers. "I don't want this," he whispered.

"I know, Bruce," Martha said. "But you're going to get better. The pain will go away. Your leg's going to heal."

He did not think he had been talking about his leg, but the morphine was beginning to swallow him up and for once in his life, he wanted to be consumed.

* * *

Dr. Cohen appeared just after dawn the next morning via the air services of Grendel Gardner. Nervous as he seemed to be around Batman – Martha had helped Bruce slip on his mask just prior to the surgeon's arrival – Cohen grew visibly more confident as he inspected his patient's wounds. If Batman took extremely good care of himself and got the right physical therapy, he said, he would be walking in months, perhaps up to speed – or near so – in six. This seemed like a long time to Bruce, but he wasn't complaining. He thanked the doctor for saving him.

"I didn't save your life," he said. "The little girl did that." He nodded toward the living room, where Martha was talking with Gren. "Probably your leg, too. Though I'll take full credit for any movement you have in it."

"Where would a person compensate you?" Batman asked.

Taken aback, Cohen said, "A person just did. I won't take your money, Batman."

Batman started to argue, then closed his mouth. Alfred would help him come up with a way to repay the surgeon. Right now, it was too hard to think. He thanked the Cohen with all the sincerity his strength would allow. As an afterthought, he asked for the syringe that would help him remove the Foley catheter. He wouldn't need it. He was going home.

"Want me to do it?" Cohen asked, handing him the syringe.

"No," Batman said.

* * *

Alfred directed the green stretcher Gren had conjured into a room he'd had several days to outfit perfectly for the months of recuperation that lay ahead. Bruce's king-sized mattress had been replaced with the highest-tech hospital bed money could buy. Although Bruce never watched television in his bedroom when he was well, Alfred had a large-screen TV installed on one wall, in case the boredom became unbearable. The six foot screen doubled as a computer monitor and, Alfred assured Grendel, a game station.

Easing Bruce into the hospital bed had been as an excruciating experience as moving him into Gren's stretcher. It did not disappoint him to see Martha setting up the pain relief pump before any other medical gadgetry. He was grateful that none of his teammates cared to linger. Sleep was what he needed now. Gren flew Lian back to the apartment. Martha told him she'd see him that evening and left with Alfred. Being back at the manor was medicine in itself. Bruce was asleep before he heard the door click closed.

* * *

They had taken only a few steps down the hallway when Martha saw Alfred's professionally neutral demeanor disintegrate. He stopped suddenly, leaned back against a corridor wall and pressed his lids hard over eyes that were tearing copiously. It didn't work. A tear tricked down each of his cheeks and he let out several shuddering breaths.

"Oh, Alfred." Martha wrapped her arms around him. Over past months, he had become used to her greeting him with a hug – she knew it had been strange for him at first, but he didn't really seem to mind – but this time he seemed afraid he might collapse altogether. He turned his forehead to the wall and apologized for his break down.

"Why are you sorry?" Martha asked, a hand still on his shoulder. "My God, I don't know how you've contained yourself this far." She led the elderly man to the kitchen and brewed them both some of the white tea she'd been keeping there.

"It's far worse now," Alfred said. Martha could tell he was trying to keep his voice from shaking. "He's not a young man; he's been hurt more over the last five years than the previous twenty. Not this badly, of course. There was the one time he broke his back, more than twenty years ago. But nothing that horrible again… until now."

Martha took his hand. "But he'll be all right. He's still Batman."

Alfred's eyes filled again. "If I'm not still here the next time this happens…. Will you take care of him?"

Martha said uncomfortably, "Well, you know I…. He doesn't really…. I'm a psychiatrist….."

His pleading gaze did not waver. "And what else are you? How did you find him? How did you save him?"

She was almost relieved that he'd asked. During their meals together, Alfred talked freely about Batman's dual identity, always in veiled terms. Although most of his stories involved Bruce's childhood or his struggle to find himself after his parents' murders, occasionally the conversation came close to the curious association between Bruce and Martha's family. Alfred could never quite understand why Bruce would maintain a relationship with Clark Kent, a man he didn't particularly like and with whom he seemed to have nothing in common. Martha had trusted the old man since she'd met him, but her secret wasn't her own. To reveal herself to anyone was to reveal her father as well. She had never done that before, but now, as Alfred's eyes searched hers, it seemed like the right thing to do.

"Alfred," she said tentatively. "I have something to tell you."

* * *

A few days after Bruce came home, Martha announced that it was time to remove the staples that wound around his leg. Bruce nervously mentioned that it might be too soon, but she assured him that his skin had knit together well and removing the staples now would reduce what was already sure to be significant scarring. As Martha had pointed out to Alfred, she was a psychiatrist, not a surgeon. She could easily perform this minor procedure, but she did so slowly, trying to reduce the amount of pain it caused. This is what set her apart from actual surgeons, Bruce thought. He had had staples removed before and the doctors hadn't given a damn whether or not the process hurt him.

Silence settled into the room as Martha worked. Bruce spent the time trying to remember what he'd wanted to ask her, something he couldn't quite put a finger on since he'd returned to consciousness in her bed. The time he'd spent at her apartment was now a blur. The only clear memory was a conversation with Roy about how she'd flown him back to the apartment topless – and he couldn't be sure of that either. It sounded too bizarre to be true.

It came to him as she was easing out a staple from the underside of his knee. "How did you get a tattoo?"

Amused, she asked, "You remember _that_?"

He shrugged. Martha indicated the silver bracelet she had looped around a belt buckle.

"You know how this works?" she asked. Bruce nodded. "So I got a tattoo. Turns out it's temporary. My body's pushing out the ink."

"What is it?" he asked, repressing an urge to ask to see the tattoo again.

Martha resumed removing his staples. "A phoenix," she said. "I like to think no matter how many times I'm knocked down, I'll keep getting up."

"Reborn," Bruce said.

"Alive, at least," she answered.

* * *

Next Chapter: _Doomsday. Not the apocalypse, the big bony guy._

_

* * *

_


	22. Chapter 22

* * *

During the six grueling months it took Batman to get back into what narrowly could be described as fighting shape, his teammates continued to impersonate him frequently enough for the criminal element of Gotham to remain relatively quiet. Increased appearances by Superwoman, who was still assumed by most to live in Metropolis, and by Quiver, who was known to have moved to Gotham not quite a year earlier, added to the city's sense of security. During that time, there had been only one unpleasant moment, when Alfred interrupted Gren's attempt to use the Batmobile. The car was not considered essential to the disguise and Alfred had no instructions from Bruce to allow anyone to drive it.

"He probably wanted to use it to pick up girls," Martha said. She had not seen a lot of Bruce since he'd started physical therapy, but she did continue to enjoy an occasional brunch with Alfred. She had the feeling that Bruce was avoiding her, and she wasn't wrong. He did not want any of his teammates to see him before he'd regained full strength, but he was particularly careful not to run into Martha. He felt so much in her debt that he truly did not want to start fighting with her again, but he was not sure he could restrain himself. It was better that he keep his distance. Bruce had run into her a few times when she was visiting Alfred; the encounters were brief and polite.

She was as surprised as everyone else when, on a warm September afternoon, almost a year to the day that Martha first offered Harvey Dent a pizza, Batman responded to a call from the Justice League.

* * *

If it had been anybody else, they all would have rushed up and hugged him. But he was still Batman. Arsenal asked him how he felt, Batman gruffly replied that he was "fine" and asked Roy to get on with the meeting.

"We're waiting for Superman," Arsenal said. "We're gonna need him for this one."

Martha frowned at Roy from across the conference room. Almost incidentally, her gaze wandered from Arsenal's face to Batman's. Her eyes lingered on his for a moment and she seemed to want to say something. If this was so, she apparently reconsidered, ducking back into a conversation she was having with Quiver and Midori.

Even from the other side of the room, Batman could pick up the curious words, "Sex" and "Councilman Greenberg." Midori had apparently asked one of her innocently inappropriate questions, because Martha and Quiver now looked like they were trying desperately not to laugh. Batman wondered if they were talking about Josh Greenberg, a councilman whose anti-poverty programs had ruffled the feathers of Gotham's conservative upper class, but had had a profoundly positive effect on many inner city families. Bruce had met Greenberg at a few fundraisers. He seemed like a good man.

"Well if I am," Martha was saying mischievously. "I'm not calling him 'Councilman Greenberg.' " Batman felt strange, as though he'd been gone a long time. Was Martha seeing Josh Greenberg?

"Unless you're playing The Politician and the Lobbyist," said Lian, adding in a dramatically high-pitched voice, "Oh, Councilman Greenberg. I really need those funds."

At this, Martha dropped her head onto the conference table, sobbing with laugher. Batman did not realize how intensely he had been watching her until she knuckled away a few tears and straightened in her chair. Her father had just flown into the room and suddenly everyone was sitting a little taller.

"Hope you haven't been waiting long," Superman said, taking a seat near the middle of the table.

"Just glad you're here," said Arsenal. He touched a button on his laptop and Batman got another surprise. The state-of-the-art nine-by-twelve SmartBoard provided by Wayne Industries had been replaced by a wall-length, three-dimensional interactive presentation system. Midori had been busy.

It would uncharacteristic for Batman to say, "Wow," so he just thought it.

Arsenal slipped on what looked like a half-glove – it covered his fingers and a few centimeters of palm – and gave his digits a slight wiggle. The screen's default image melted into a camera sweep of a small African village – one that appeared to have recently suffered devastation.

"This is – this _was_ – Malindi, a coastal town just north of Mombasa," Arsenal said.

"Kenya," interjected Meera.

"Yeah. Like I said, it was Malindi. What's that look like, a tornado?" Arsenal asked.

"We know it's not a tornado," Flash said. "I'm guessing this disaster wasn't natural."

"Totally unnatural," said Roy. "Locals report a rampaging gray giant with bones protruding from his shoulders and fists. He –"

"Shit," Martha said her near-black eyes boring into the view screen. Her hand moved towards her right hip.

"—didn't leave a building, bus or bike standing," Roy continued. Superwoman followed up this statement with several obscene words. Superman was silent, his features as harsh as his daughter's language.

"Great," Gren said. "So it's…."

"Big bony bod, itty bitty brain. Must be Doomsday," Roy said grimly. "You can see why we need you here, Clark."

"I would rather my father _not_ be here," said Superwoman. One of the most memorable mother-daughter talks she and Lois had had, shortly after Dave's murder, involved her mother's recollection of Superman's death at the hands of Doomsday. Clark's resurrection, months later, had not made the experience any less traumatic for Lois – and her recounting of those darkest days had deeply shaken their daughter.

"He only beat me the first time," Superman said.

* * *

Kenya was one of the most beautiful places in the world, thought Superwoman, as she zig-zagged over the countryside west of Mombasa. She had not been there in a long while and she had forgotten the thrill of watching herds of wild zebra charging through the grasslands. There was no greener grass, no bluer sky, she thought. She hoped she could keep things free of red, that no further blood would taint the stunning landscape.

"Anything?" A static-filled voice buzzed in her ear. Meera was still back at headquarters, working with the others, so Superwoman and her father were communicating by radio and reception in this part of Africa was awful.

"No," she shouted. "Nothing big and bony."

"You don't have to shout," he pointed out. "I can hear you without the radio."

Superwoman rolled her eyes. "Show-off," she said, and heard Superman's static-filled chuckle. "I'm heading north."

"No." Superman's voice was suddenly charged with urgency. "I'm just south of the border, over the Mkomazi Game Reserve. Get over here."

Superwoman somersaulted into a southbound trajectory and shot down toward northern Tanzania. Her dad had found Doomsday. She hoped the discovery wasn't mutual.

* * *

"So what do you do with a homicidal super-powered giant who can regenerate spontaneously, even when you've scattered his atoms all over the universe?" Arsenal had asked hours earlier. "Turns out we have some ideas."

For "the Supers," as Roy sometimes called them, the plan would be relatively simple.

"He'd rather kill you two than anyone else," said Arsenal. "He responds to red capes like a bull on steroids – especially when they've got those big yellow "S's on them.

"You guys have got to keep him occupied – without, if you please, getting dead or anything."

"Dead is bad," Quiver agreed.

* * *

Superwoman rocketed across the Tanzanian border, searching doggedly for the landmarks her father had described. She'd flown so fast that the radio earpiece had blown out of her ear miles back, but not before Superman laid out Doomsday's current route through the spacious reserves of Tanzania. Flash was on his way as well – he'd accompanied them to Africa, while the others stayed behind to work on Midori's dubious brainstorm.

Speeding over a herd of caribou, she saw him, a bony gray mammoth bounding wildly towards some unseen target. Flash was tailing him from about 30 meters away, using the lush trees and bush as cover. Superman was also following, at a distance, directly behind Doomsday. A brutish, single-minded and entirely unself-conscious creature, Doomsday never gave thought to the possibility that someone might pursue him. Unfortunately, this was hardly a handicap: the Kryptonian monstrosity was so astoundingly strong, that it did little good to try to catch him by surprise. Outsmarting him was their best bet. The problem was that Doomsday was genetically bred to gain immunity to all previous methods of attack against him. Superwoman had not fought him before and wasn't sure if there was anything left that hadn't been tried.

She shot ahead of him, careful to remain out of eyeshot. Four jeeps, each filled with tourists on a photo safari, motored over the hilly plains about a mile ahead.

Adjusting the mouthpiece to the radio, which had been blown down around her neck, Superwoman burst forward, shouting out instructions she hoped Superman would hear and relay to the Flash. It must have worked. Seconds later, all three of them were catapulting toward the tourists. Unfortunately, either the wake of their trails, or maybe their scents, alerted Doomsday to their presence.

Superwoman dove under one of the jeeps and lifted it through the air. She was sorry to hear its occupants screaming. There had been no time to warn them. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Superman shouldering a second vehicle. After depositing them miles out of Doomsday's presumed path, father and daughter returned to seize the remaining jeeps. As they soared over the horizon, they could hear the tourists' screams. They had seen Doomsday and he had seen them.

Flash had already thrown himself into the monster's way, circling him at near the speed of sound and weaving in his wake a small, but formidable man-made twister. Superwoman saw Doomsday's elephantine foot protruding from the whirlwind of dirt and brush. The force of Flash's momentum had forced him fifteen feet in the air. She had to hand it to Wally, Superwoman thought. He had balls. Fast as he was, he was as vulnerable as any ordinary human being. One punch from mindless Kryptonian creature would kill him. Yet, he threw himself between Doomsday and the tourists without a second of hesitation.

It was quick enough to re-unite the tourists. Superman gave the shaken safari guides directions to head east immediately. The plan was to force Doomsday in the opposite direction.

Flash was running out of steam by the time they returned, and Doomsday's upside-down arm could be seen sticking out of the fading twister. He seemed to be just a foot or two off the ground. Knowing Flash would need a few seconds to get out of the way, Superman took a deep breath and cannonballed into his longtime adversary.

* * *

Having announced the existence of a plan, Arsenal turned the meeting over to Midori. All eyes had locked on her. Emerald-faced with embarrassment, she swallowed and slipped on a glove similar to Roy's.

"First of all, we thought about his origins," she said. "Kryptonian. Not traditionally humanoid, but still indigenous to the planet. Our first thought was kryptonite." Midori looked at Superman expectantly.

"_Your_ first thought," Roy said. "It never would have occurred to me."

Superman said politely, "It is a good thought. But I'm afraid not an original one. We've tried Kryptonite bullets, arrows…. Doomsday's skin is impenetrable."

Midori nodded enthusiastically. "Right," she said. "But what about saturation on a molecular level?"

Superman squinted at her quizzically. Everyone else just stared.

* * *

The effect of Superman's attack on Doomsday reminded his daughter of recess wall ball games at her old elementary school. He shot forward, then, almost immediately, came flying back with greater force and less control. Superwoman felt as if something were squeezing her heart. _Dad, please be OK_, she thought. And with a clenched jaw, she hurtled toward the brutal creature that had once killed her father.

* * *

"Liquid penetrates the body on a cellular level – so do gases," Midori had explained. "And we know Doomsday can be compromised on the cellular level because he has been in the past. If his cells are permeated with what amounts to poison for any Kryptonian life form, he should be impaired enough for us to stop him."

"So we… submerge him in a tank of kryptonite?" Superwoman asked skeptically.

"Not you, sweetheart," said Roy. "Or your dad. You stay away from the kryptonite."

"I'll remind you," Martha had said coldly, "That kryptonite just makes me break out. To Superman, it's a poison. To me it's an allergen."

"Ever hear of anaphylactic shock, Doctor?" Batman asked. Superwoman glared at him.

"Keeping to the point," said Superman. "How would we do this, Midori?"

* * *

Unlike her father,Superwoman had not been attempting a direct hit on Doomsday. She knew she could be stubborn and sometimes reckless, but she was not stupid. She shot about a hundred feet past the monster, then whipped around and taunted him. She did not bother with words – he probably would not understand them – but she made sure he could see her costume. Arsenal had called it right – the sight of a flyer in red and blue – one who clearly had modeled herself after the creature's greatest foe – inspired a roar of rage from the rampaging colossus. Her satisfaction in drawing Doomsday away from her father and Flash was short-lived: She had never fought him before and in her inexperience she had miscalculated his recovery time and his speed. Superwoman was never quite sure what he hit her with – a hand, a foot, his head – but the blow sent her flying backward into the hard Tanzanian earth. Doomsday was upon her before she struck the ground.

* * *

"Cadmus has stores of kryptonite?" Midori had asked. Superman nodded. "I'll need as much as they can spare. I'm hoping it reduces to gas better than it liquefies. It'll go a lot farther that way."

Quiver asked, "How long will all this take?"

"Midori thinks most of a day," Arsenal said. "Meanwhile, there's a big, ugly troll out there demolishing half of Kenya. So Supes – and Supes" he nodded to each of them. "You're going to have to distract him. Prevent additional civilian casualties – or minimize them, at least. The Flash will go with you.

"And Martha – don't do anything stupid," Roy said forcefully. "You are not to fight this bruiser head-on. Just bait and run."

"Right," said Superwoman. "Know my limitations."

* * *

At first she thought the explosion was the sound of Doomsday's fist smashing through her skull, but then Superwoman realized her head was still intact and the rampant gray giant was no longer straddling her. The Flash had zoomed past his besieged teammate, producing a perfectly placed sonic boom. The noise hadn't dislodged Doomsday, but it had startled him, at which point Superman slammed into his bony head. This had sent Kryptonian man and monster tumbling.

Superman was a better street fighter than most people knew, primarily because most of his battles never had to come to that, but now he was fighting for his life – and his daughter's. He blasted laser-fine columns of heat right into Doomsday's eyes. The creature blinked as if an eyelash had fallen between his lids, then rammed his fist into Superman's chest, barely missing his solar plexus. The Man of Steel followed up with a double open-hand palm smash to Doomsday's ears, but this attack was equally ineffective and the monster's answering blow to his ribs more painful.

Flash was shouting something at Superwoman, but her focus was on her father now and when she saw him double over, she reacted without thinking. She flew low and fast towards Doomsday, her fists doubled over her head like a battering ram. Pure momentum was on her side: She plowed into the creature's knees, knocking him clear over her shoulders and onto his back. As he howled in rage, all three Justice Leaguers moved out of range.

"They're coming," Flash yelled to his teammates. "We've just got to hold him a little longer."

"How long?" gasped Superwoman. The Flash shook his head, his eyes locked on Doomsday, now on his feet and angrier than ever. Superman was having trouble breathing. His ribs were probably broken, yet he was bracing for another round of punishment.

Doomsday sensed that his oldest enemy was now the most vulnerable of his three targets. He rushed at Superman with a speed that rivaled the Flash. Superwoman, emboldened by her successful unbalancing of the creature, attempted the low-flying body sweep a second time. This time Doomsday was ready for her. Had he not been focusing most of his momentum on attacking her father, the kick he aimed at Superwoman's chest would have killed her. As it was, she went soaring skyward like a football, unable to control her excruciating tumble towards the stratosphere.

An immense green hand caught her.

As Gren Gardner used his ring-powered light energy to drag her back down to Earth, Superwoman saw the _Javelin-11_ tear across the African sky.

_So much for the warm-up act_, she thought, wiping blood from her mouth. _It's showtime._

* * *

Superman would have been ready for Doomsday's charge even if his daughter hadn't tried to run interference for him. Having disengaged from the murderous monstrosity, Superman had no intention of resuming physical contact with him again. Doomsday wasn't a thinking fighter. He blundered and charged and swung and roared, but there was neither strategy nor art to his fighting. Even with his ribs broken – and they were already healing – Superman could dodge him for a while, just as long as Martha and Wally remained out of danger.

He could not look away from Doomsday to see what happened to his daughter, but Superman knew the behemoth had knocked her a considerable distance. In seconds, he would be able to help her. Right now, he had to concentrate on his monomaniacal attacker. One, two, three…. A second before Doomsday could ram into Superman, the Man of Steel shot straight upward. Doomsday went staggering into a tree. The tree did not survive.

_Superman._ It was Meera. _We're here_. _Continue to distract Doomsday until the Green Lantern has contained him._

"Martha," said Superman.

_She's fine._

Superwoman had, in fact, recovered enough to re-join Superman and Flash as they scrambled to occupy Doomsday. The Flash, having received the message at the same time as Superman, attempted another whirlwind. Doomsday responded by barreling towards him, his hideous face contorted in rage. Wally had not considered how fast the monster was. For a second, as Doomsday's brutish face loomed over his, he thought this miscalculation might be his last.

_Bam! _The noise was almost as loud as the sonic boom the Flash had conjured earlier. Superman and Superwoman, one hitting high, the other low, had slammed into Doomsday with all of their might. As all three super beings went crashing to the ground, a green, cell-like cube enveloped Doomsday – and Superwoman.

"Hey!" screamed Superwoman, crawling frantically backward toward the edge of the solid-light construct. Gren immediately re-adjusted the energy field so that Doomsday alone was contained. The monster roared furiously and started pounding at the barrier. A Green Lantern's constructs were considered impenetrable, but Doomsday was shaking the walls of his emerald prison.

Seconds later, Batman, Midori and the Harpers glided over the captive gargantuan on what looked like a metallic flying wading pool. Loaded onto the hovercraft were four canisters that stood as tall – and as wide – as Batman.

"Hurry!" Gren shouted at them. Arsenal and Batman tipped over the first canister and the Green Lantern began to extend his construct upwards, forming an air-tight funnel around it.

_Superman and Superwoman, back away, _Meera ordered. Superman did so immediately, hanging back about 50 airborne feet from Gren's makeshift cage.

"Isn't it airtight?" Superwoman wanted to observe the effects of the kryptonite gas on Doomsday and she knew she wouldn't be able to see from that far back. She watched in fascination as lime-colored gas flowed into the monster's cell, lightening the appearance of Gren's emerald walls. Doomsday, sensing an unpleasant change in his atmosphere, raged against the malleable wall, his punching furiously.

As soon as the first canister was depleted, Batman and Quiver positioned a second one. They were tipping the unwieldy container toward the solid light funnel when Doomsday bounded into the air and took a savage swipe at them through the construct. The force of his attack was so strong that the ceiling of the green cell bubbled out and the monster's huge hand slammed into the hovercraft, knocking both the canister and Batman into the air.

Superwoman swooped forward, seizing Batman neatly about a few meters before he hit the ground. She reached out to grab the receptacle as well, but found no handhold. The container smashed into the earth and exploded.

As her lungs filled with Kryptonite gas, Batman's snark about anaphylactic shock seemed less unreasonable. Superwoman's lungs felt like they had locked into the exhale position. She was not merely struggling for breath – she could not breathe at all.

Blacking out, she felt herself being dragged along the hot dry earth. She wondered if she was going to live to hear her teammates say "I told you so."

* * *

Arsenal watched Batman haul Superwoman out of danger and then helped Quiver position the third canister. Doomsday, apparently suffering a delayed reaction to the first dose of kryptonite gas, was not able to prevent a successful release of the contents of this container or the last one. As the Kryptonian monstrosity thudded to the floor of Gren's prison, Arsenal flashed Midori an exuberant grin.

* * *

Turbulence and the rumble of engines roused Martha from unconsciousness. Her eyes opened directly into Superman's. He was watching her intently.

"Hey," she rasped. Her lips and throat were swollen and raw. A slow grin moved across his face. "Where's Doomsday?"

"Headed for a kryptonite-infused containment cell at Cadmus," Superman replied. He continued to examine her bruised face. "You OK?"

She nodded. She looked past her father and realized they were on the _Jav_, along with the rest of their teammates. Martha dipped her head toward a window and saw that they had just taken off. She looked back at Superman. He was shaking his head in grim amusement.

"So how's that allergy?" he asked. Martha scowled at him.

"If I hadn't been there, Batman would have gone splat," she said. Superman could have contested this statement: Batman knew how to fall. But his ability to do so without injury was questionable. Superman wasn't sure how healed his colleague's leg was, or how badly off-balance the six-month recovery period might have put him.

It was a moot point anyway; when Martha assumed her mother's 'stubborn face,' there was no point in arguing with her. As long as she was all right, Superman was willing to leave it alone. He gave her knee a squeeze and moved towards the front of the shuttle. As soon as he left his daughter, Batman was in her face.

"You leave me out of this," he whispered. "You took a ridiculous risk." He corrected himself. "Make that ridiculous _risks._ Didn't Harper tell you not to try to take on Doomsday?"

Goggling at him, Martha said vehemently, "I didn't do a thing Roy asked me not to do."

"Really? I wonder what I was looking at on the _Javelin _monitor."

"I don't know," said Martha. "You didn't seem to be looking very carefully when Doomsday knocked you off the hovercraft. Maybe there's something wrong with your eyes."

By the time the shuttle docked with the Watchtower, they were shouting at each other.

* * *

Flash sniggered happily as soon as the fireworks started, but Roy could tell that Superman was shocked by the heated exchange between Batman and his daughter. Clark almost never worked with the Justice League when Superwoman was available. That was the nature of their "job-sharing" arrangement. The fighting was a new and unpleasant discovery.

Roy watched as Superman's eyes swept the cabin, doubtlessly noticing the team's nonchalant response to the vociferous argument in the back of the shuttle. Lian had rolled her eyes, Midori looked nervous. Meera seemed to be napping. And Gren did not lift his gaze from a martial arts magazine he'd found under one of the seats.

"Do they do this a lot?" Superman asked Roy.

"Sort of." Arsenal felt embarrassed. As team leader, he should have put a stop to the bickering long ago. But like Wally, he was fascinated by the dynamic that had developed between his squabbling teammates. He had never seen anyone get under Batman's skin the way Martha Kent could merely by standing in the same room.

"Bad for the team," Superman said quietly. He watched his daughter glare at the caped crusader and added stonily, "I'll talk to her."

* * *

Arsenal kept the debriefing short: Cadmus had Doomsday in custody; he was in a kryptonite coma. They – the scientists at the Project – wanted to "do some things" to him.

Distrust distorted Quiver's sultry features. "He's gonna get out."

"Let's hope not," said Arsenal. "Those guys usually know what they're doing."

As everyone piled out of the conference room and headed for the shuttle, Superman touched his daughter's arm. "Hold up," he said. When they were alone, he walked over to a large porthole and examined the waxing Earth.

"I was surprised to see you and Batman at each other's throats," he said. "After the whole Fray thing and all."

"The 'me saving his life' thing?" ask Martha ironically. "Oh yeah, that's gonna save me from the verbal beatings."

Superman turned to frown at her. "You were going just as hot and heavy as he was," he said dubiously. "What's going on?"

"He starts it," said Martha hotly.

"You sound like a third grader," her father said in disbelief. "Who cares who starts it?"

She was silent. After a moment, Clark added, "Martha, I know the guy is… difficult. _Believe_ me, I know it. But he's also…. I can't think of a word to describe what his existence has meant to this world."

Martha gazed sightlessly out of the porthole. She nodded.

"I don't know what his problem is – this particular problem, I mean. But, if he says something to rile you, just ignore it," Superman continued. "Disengage. You keep fighting – it could hurt the whole team. We've got to be cohesive. A rift could mean someone dies."

Martha shuddered and Superman could see the goosebumps rise on her forearms.

"You're right," she said, looking ashamed. "It won't happen again. This isn't like me, Dad," she added earnestly.

"I know it isn't," said Clark, smiling.

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _A celebration, an olive branch, and a never-ending battle._

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	23. Chapter 23

* * *

Waiters were already depositing baskets of bread on the tables of the Moore Ballroom at the Metropolis Sheraton when Bruce Wayne walked through the ornately carved red doors. Traffic from Gotham had been heavy; now he was late for a celebration he hadn't wanted to attend.

A quick survey of the crowded banquet hall turned up a few familiar faces: Roy Harper and Wally West were sitting at a large round table near the edge of the dance floor. Midori, wearing a short, fashionable black dress, approached the men and Roy reached over to pull out a chair for her. Most of the guests were people Bruce didn't know, family and friends of Clark Kent and Lois Lane, here to celebrate the 30th wedding anniversary of Metropolis' two most legendary reporters.

Bruce found a toppled place card with his name on it at a table near the door and wove gingerly toward his assigned seat. He was relieved to see he'd been placed at the table just next to the Justice League contingent without actually have been seated with them. He could talk to Roy and Wally this way without appearing to be a part of their group. Someone had been considerate with the seating arrangements.

Roy had just noticed him and was attempting eye contact when Bruce felt a bump at his elbow. A rangy young man with dreadlocks and a midnight blue suit had stumbled against the leg of a chair, catching himself seconds before he would have toppled onto Bruce.

"Clayton?" Bruce hadn't seen Clark's son in years. He had grown about a foot.

"Mr. Wayne. Great to see you. Thanks so much for coming," Clay said. "Really cool of you to drive all the way up here from Gotham."

"Wouldn't have missed it. I'm glad to be here," said Bruce, lying twice. Alfred had taken it upon himself to RSVP the invitation weeks before Bruce had seen it lying on the kitchen table.

* * *

He had noticed the card a few days after the Doomsday mission while sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. When Alfred poured him a second cup, Bruce had gestured toward the invitation and said, "Send my regrets, please – and some sort of present."

Not meeting his eyes, the old butler said, "You have already accepted the invitation."

"When did I do that?" Bruce was almost too surprised to be angry. It was completely unlike Alfred to accept an invitation on his behalf without consulting him.

Alfred said steadily, "Last month."

"Who sent out the invitations?" Bruce asked.

"Dr. Kent," replied the butler.

"Please call her," said Bruce. "And explain that I can no longer attend."

Alfred launched into an emotional lament that he would spend his final days worrying about Bruce's mental health in light of his increasing tendency toward reclusiveness. It occurred to Bruce that the old man might be trying to use his fragile state to manipulate him, though he couldn't imagine why Alfred might do this. Before he could call the butler on it, Alfred concluded his tirade by declaring that only a lout would rebuff an invitation to honor a man with whom he'd fought side-by-side for decades.

Bruce stared at him. "You… _know_?" Secret identities were sacred. Bruce had never felt he had the right to share Clark's with anyone, even Alfred, who would have died before revealing it.

"Yes," Alfred said.

"He told you?"

"Dr. Kent shared her secret with me," Alfred replied. "This led to certain assumptions about her father."

Bruce shook his head in disbelief. "When did she tell you?"

"The day she brought you home," Alfred replied. "After that horrible Fray ordeal."

* * *

Dinner was quite good, considering there was not a shred of meat on the menu. Afterwards, Bruce turned his chair around so he could talk to Roy. The presence of famous superheroes had been a distraction for perhaps the first half hour of the party, but word soon circulated that Lois and Clark's daughter had recently been made the Justice League's team doctor and that she had invited her new friends as a surprise for her parents. Gren certainly relished the attention; he had been surrounded by young women since he'd walked into the ballroom. There was some speculation that Superman might appear, as he was a known friend of the Kents, but so far he was a no-show.

"Martha and Clay did a great job," Roy said, gesturing around the ballroom. People were dancing now. Bruce saw Lian towing Clay onto the dance floor, a few yards away from Meera and Emma. Clark and Lois, sitting at a long table in front of their guests, seemed as enrapt as honeymooners. They were talking to each other with undisguised intimacy, pausing occasionally to beam at the crowd of guests. Bruce wondered if Martha had brought Greenberg. He did not see either of them.

Midori was pulling at the hem of her dress, as though she wanted to stretch it down around her ankles. Lian had probably badgered her into wearing the tiny garment.

"You look nice, Midori," Bruce said, leaning over Roy. She jumped a bit on her seat and blushed as dark as an evergreen needle. In or out of the fighting suit, Batman still unnerved her.

"I told her the same thing," Roy said. "She's gorgeous. She's gonna dance with me soon." Midori's mortified expression said otherwise, but a few minutes later, Roy had somehow managed to drag her onto the dance floor. She looked petrified.

"Poor Midori." Wally had slid his chair closer to Bruce. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," said Bruce, sick of this question. He watched Midori stumble over Roy's feet. "What's up with them?"

"I think we're looking at wife number three," Wally replied.

Bruce excused himself to use a restroom. As he rounded the corner just outside of the ballroom, Martha Kent nearly slammed into him. She was breathless and looked a bit windswept in her clingy red satin dress. A lock of shiny brown hair had escaped from her upswept hairstyle and tumbled over her right temple.

"Sorry," she said, putting a hand on his chest to steady herself. "Bank robbery a few blocks away. My father is _not _leaving this party tonight."

"Hologram." Bruce nodded at the device hanging from a sash on Martha's dress.

She snatched it off. "Oh, thanks. I don't have any pockets; will you hold it for me?" Without waiting for his reply, she slipped it into the inside breast pocket of his open suit jacket. Self-consciously, she tucked the stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Do I look OK?"

She looked very nice. "Yeah," he said.

Martha touched his arm. "You're not leaving?" Bruce shook his head. "Good. I'll see you inside. I want to talk to you."

That didn't sound promising. "OK."

She hurried into the ballroom. Bruce watched the heavy red door close behind her.

When he returned to his seat a few minutes later, he was amused to see that DJs still played the_ Electric_ _Slide_ at these gatherings and that most of the guests, including his teammates and the man who was secretly Superman, had piled onto the floor to dance. Roy was sitting at his table alone.

"Not your kind of dance?" Bruce asked him.

Roy made a face and rubbed the top of his foot through a dress shoe. "Midori kind of stabbed me with a heel."

"Serves you right, Pygmalion," Bruce said. "Can't you find a woman your own age?" He hated men who made fools of themselves with young women.

Roy looked injured. "My second wife was older than me," he said. "So was Cheshire." Lian's mother. "Anyway, I'm just –"

"Acclimating her," Bruce said. Roy gave him a sheepish grin.

"OK, so maybe – Oh, hi, Martha," Roy said. "Great party."

"Thanks!" She dropped playfully into Roy's lap. "You're having a good time?"

"Right now I am," he leered. "No Josh tonight?"

She shook her head. "Too early for that."

"No _Slide _for you? Why aren't you up there with the teeming masses?" Roy asked.

Martha crossed her legs and Bruce watched the short red dress ride up a bit higher onto her thigh. "Not in these shoes," she said, grinning. She ran a finger down the length of one black three-inch heel.

"Well they are kind of…." Roy whispered the rest of his sentence into her ear.

She laughed. "On me, they're more like "catch me" pumps. I can barely walk in them."

Bruce thought that was an exaggeration. But it did explain the odd feeling he'd had in the corridor that she had seemed a little taller.

Martha tilted her head at him. "Are you having a good time?" she asked seriously.

"All right," he replied.

Her eyes dropped from his face to the knees of his dress trousers for a moment. Then she turned to smile at Roy. "I'll be right back." Bruce watched her walk toward the DJ.

He hadn't heard the dance end, but Wally and the women, along with Clay, had returned to the table. Midori appeared traumatized. Lian and Clay assured her that she'd done great.

"Like a crazed bowling ball in a room full of pins," Wally whispered to Roy and Bruce.

Bruce listened idly to snatches of conversation among his teammates, jerking his head toward Midori when he thought he heard her ask Lian and Clayton Kent if they were going to have sex after the party. Apparently Bruce had heard right. Clay – who had never met Midori before – looked appalled.

"Why is she asking everyone that?" he asked Roy, recalling the conversation on the Watchtower.

Roy blushed. "Well –"

Bruce felt someone touch his hand. He turned to see Martha sitting in an empty seat next to his. She smiled nervously.

"Will you dance with me?" she asked. "I asked them to play this song."

It was an old Tina Turner number, one the rock legend had recorded for a movie about her life.

"OK," Bruce said warily.

On the dance floor, she said, "You're limping a little. You weren't when we were in Africa."

"I wore a brace in Africa," he said. Bruce was glad she hadn't been able to tell. The brace had been built into his fighting suit and it was meant to be undetectable.

She tightened her grip on his shoulder as he led her around the dance floor. The heels made them a better fit, but she was a bit awkward on them.

"What's so special about this song?" Bruce asked.

She didn't answer right away. "I think Roy's falling in love with Midori."

"Well, why not?" said Bruce. "He's shaping her into the woman of his dreams."

Martha shook her head. "No. Midori has a mind of her own. She's just kind of overwhelmed. No experience with this sort of thing."

"That why she's asking everyone in the world if they're having sex?" Bruce asked.

She grinned. "You've heard, huh?"

"I heard her ask you," Bruce said.

Martha looked at him sharply. "I've only seen Josh a couple times. So, no," she said.

"I wasn't the one who was asking," he answered. They danced in silence for a while.

_I don't care who's wrong or right  
I don't really wanna fight no more_

Stepping closer, Martha looked up at him, her dark eyes serious.

"I want to apologize," she said. "For my part in these insane arguments we keep having. That's why I had them play this song. I don't want to fight with you anymore."

Bruce didn't realize he'd stopped dancing until another couple bumped into them.

"You shouldn't be apologizing," he said slowly, as they started to move again. "I'm the one –" Suddenly, Martha's warm fingers were on his lips. He felt the words fall away.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I just don't want to do it anymore. It's bad for the team. And it doesn't make me feel great, either.

"I'm not saying we have to be friends," she added. "I'd just like to be…. not enemies."

"I think I can do 'not enemies,'" Bruce said.

The song was coming to an end.

"Martha," he said, trying not to strangle on her first name. "Thank you."

She looked up in pleased surprise. "For what?"

"For holding out an olive branch," he said, with what was almost a smile.

"Thank _you_, Bruce," she replied. "For accepting it."

* * *

It was a little after ten o'clock in the Moore Ballroom. A new song started and Lois Lane began to dance with her brother-in-law, Ron Troupe. Lian was dancing Martha's cousin Sam and Wally was making his fourth trip to the dessert bar.

In less than an hour, a four-alarm chemical fire in Midvale would bring the party to a premature end for Martha Kent, Bruce Wayne and Grendel Gardner. In Central City, a new supervillain would hold a catering hall full of bar mitzvah guests hostage and Wally West would leave to handle it, taking his remaining teammates with him.

But the peace had not been broken yet. Eight warriors who would have never called themselves superheroes danced, laughed, dined and drank with a room full of people who could not have called them anything else. These precious hours spent celebrating something as ordinary as a wedding anniversary would give meaning to everything in their lives that followed.

People who didn't understand thought it was all about supervillains and hostile aliens and life-threatening disasters. But it had always been about people, like the ones at this party, who went to work and raised families and who did more right things than wrong ones. They deserved to get through each day without the shattering effects of a bullet or a bomb. They deserved to celebrate their lives without fear.

That's why there was a Justice League – and why there always would be.

* * *


	24. Author's Note

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**Author's Note:**

Thanks for reading! The trilogy continues in _Truth and Justice: The Second Year_ and _Truth and Justice: The Third Year_ and is followed up in a short vignette, _Schoolyard Justice_, which occurs five years after the events described in the last chapter of the third story and is meant to be read last.

To all of you who have taken or will take the time to leave a review, thanks so much. Feedback is the only means fanfiction writers have of knowing someone has enjoyed their work. Your kind words mean more than I can express.

JC Roberts


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